Si;3|isi!^::s:4PK::^ 


liiWiKgStSv.TiVv''.  ^ 


•v^>S\^ 


^^jir«i4o^'^' 


RKGinrAEJ)  GooBwai  JB^auSAU) 


>H   >»*     y^' 


it 


No.  6" 


'^o.  6 


jy 


A  Few  Pages  from  the  Diary  of 
an  Ambulance  Driver 


BY 

C.  DE  FLOREZ 


NEW  YORK 

E.  p.  BUTTON  b'  COMPANY 

68 1  FIFTH  AVENUE 


r^ 


f( 


Copyright,  1918, 
By  E.  p.  button  6-  COMPANY 


All  Rights  Resened 


Printed  in  the  United  States  rf  America 


TO  THE  GOOD  FRIEND 
WHO   SHARED    IT   ALL 


FOREWORD 

» 
It  is  not  possible  to  add  any  phrase, 

however  emphatic,  or  any  words,  how- 
ever earnest,  to  the  praise  that  has  been 
given  to  devoted  and  gallant  France  since 
those  fateful  days  in  August  when  the 
future  of  civilisation  and  the  fate  of  the 
world  were  in  the  hands  of  her  devoted 
soldiers.  The  long  silent  suffering  of  the 
women  and  children,  the  quiet,  confident 
— almost  gay — resignation  of  the  officers 
and  men  to  seemingly  endless  conflict  can 
never  be  measured  in  mere  words.  These 
things  can  be  seen  and  felt;  they  cannot 
be  wholly  or  adequately  expressed. 

Anything,  however,  that  helps  us  to 
appreciate  the  soul  of  France  is  an  aid 

vii 


viii  rorewor* 


and  an  inspiration  to  us  in  America  for 
whom  it  is  necessary  to  emulate  the  ex- 
ample of  that  devoted  people  if  the  war 
is  to  be  won. 

The  thing  that  has  struck  me  most  dur- 
ing my  visit  to  France  has  been — what  I 
might  term — the  silence  of  the  soldier. 
By  that  I  mean  his  absolute  freedom  from 
bombast  and  high-sounding  phrase.  One 
might  almost  believe  that  his  apparent 
insouciance  as  he  goes  quietly  about  his 
Stern  duties  covers  some  indifiference. 
The  reality  is,  however,  that  the  French 
soldier  feels  the  absolute  impossibility  of 
phrasing  his  sentiments.  Everything  that 
he  loves  is  so  fundamentally  involved  in 
the  conflict  that  deeds,  and  deeds  alone, 
must  count.  I  have  seen  them  from  the 
North  and  from  the  South;  the  grave 
Norman    and    the    quick-tempered    man 


Foreword  ix 


from  the  Midi,  yet  all  pervaded  by  the 
same  spirit  of  simple,  quiet,  unquestion- 
ing devotion  to  the  immediate  work  at 
hand — the  freeing  of  French  territory 
from  the  invader.  ''He  is  not  always  gay 
w^ho  wishes  it,"  said  a  great  French 
writer,  and  that  French  gaiety  of  spirit 
so  admirably  depicted  in  this  little  book 
is  surely  one  of  the  great  qualities  of  that 
ancient  civilised  race  which  has  enabled 
them  through  the  centuries  to  survive  and 
to  hold  that  predominant  place  in  the 
world  of  Art,  Letters  and  of  Thought 
which  has  given  to  France  the  primacy  in 
the  heart  and  intellect  of  civilised  man. 
I  have  seen  their  burned  and  devastated 
villages — the  scenes  of  nameless  outrage 
— to  which  the  women  and  children  had 
returned  after  the  barbarian  retreat  that 
they  might  cultivate  the  fields  and  sus- 


X  Foreword 


tain  the  husband  and  the  father  who  was 
away  fighting  for  France.  The  quiet 
simplicity  of  these  little  peasant  folk,  in- 
tent upon  the  task  of  wringing  from  the 
generous  French  soil  its  last  grain  of  sus- 
tenance for  the  loved  ones  who  are 
defending  la  Patrie,  was  more  impressive 
than  any  of  the  orations  heard  at  banquets 
or  upon  State  occasions. 

The  simple  recital  in  these  pages  of  the 
daily  routine  duty  so  cheerfully  and 
simply  done  has  impressed  me  more  than 
the  writings  of  the  literary  men  who  often 
speak  rather  of  their  own  feelings  than 
of  that  which  they  have  actually  seen.  It 
is  the  reaction  of  the  simple  soldier,  of 
the  ordinary  peasant,  of  the  little  child, 
to  the  great  conflict  which  really  discloses 
the  soul  of  the  nation.  As  a  man's  real 
nature  appears  in  time  of  crisis  when  all 


Foreword  xi 


dissimulation  and  disguise  are  cast  aside 
in  the  imminent  presence  of  bodily  de- 
struction, so  that  superb  spirit  of  the 
French  nation,  developed  through  two 
thousand  years  of  education,  inheriting 
the  great  and  real  culture  of  the  Roman 
Empire,  standing  for  centuries  as  a  bar- 
rier against  the  barbarian  from  the  North 
who  has  threatened  civilisation  from  the 
time  of  Marius  and  Caesar  as  he  has 
done  at  repeated  intervals  to  the  present 
day,  has  now  for  nearly  four  years  been 
fully  and  completely  manifested  to  the 
modern  world.  If  the  best  emotions  of 
the  human  heart  be  not  mere  chemical 
by-products  to  be  disregarded  by  progres- 
sive militant  nations,  but  are  rather  the 
only  things  which  make  life  worth  living, 
and  if  man  be  anything  other  than  a  scien- 
tific  brute,    then,    indeed,    the   cause   of 


xii  Foreword 


France  from  the  beginning  has  been  in- 
distinguishable from  that  of  humanity. 

The  two  theories  of  the  man  brute  and 
of  the  man  human  met  squarely  on  the 
fields  of  the  Marne — and  still  battle  in 
Flanders  and  in  Northern  France;  again, 
as  in  former  centuries,  must  the  final  con- 
flict take  place  upon  her  devoted  soil.  It 
is  fortunate  that  the  lines  are  drawn  so 
sharply.  We  owe  a  debt  of  gratitude  to 
the  German  scientists  and  thinkers  who 
did  not  shrink  from  the  responsibility  of 
justifying  as  their  highest  and  ultimate 
gospel  the  triumph  of  the  brute  biped 
directed  by  modern  science.  Any  issue 
less  sharply  drawn  might  not  have 
brought  the  United  States  side  by  side 
with  France  and  Great  Britain.  The 
American  people,  long  isolated  from 
European  affairs,  might  not  have  under- 


Foreword  xiii 


stood  that  this  was  not  a  mere  European 
conflict,  but  transcended  the  boundaries 
of  time  and  space  as  the  latest  and  great- 
est phase  of  the  eternal  struggle  between 
that  which  is  highest  and  that  which  is 
lowest  in  man. 

I  am  confident  that  this  little  book  will 
be  a  useful  contribution  to  our  knowledge 
of  that  ever  amazing  French  spirit  which 
brings  us  assurance  that  in  the  end  we 
must  triumph  and  that  all  this  sacrifice 
must  not  and  has  not  been  for  naught. 

Frederic  R.  Coudert. 


"No.  6" 

Monday,  6th  August,  IQIJ. 

Monday  at  5  a.  m.  we  reported  7  rue 
Frangois  Premier.  Our  mountain  of  lug- 
gage was  piled  high  together  with  our- 
selves into  three  huge  camions  and  in  the 
grey  light  of  a  misty  morning  we  rumbled 
along  through  the  quiet  streets  awaken- 
ing sleepy  Paris,  although  Paris  is  prob- 
ably used  to  the  noise  of  departing  sol- 
diers. Ever  since  the  battle  of  the  Marne 
they  have  heard  the  ominous  sound. 

The  Gare  de  I'Est  is  as  busy  as  the  other 
stations  that  feed  men  to  the  trenches  and 
cannon,  and  receive  what  is  left  of  those 
who  return.    It  took  a  bit  of  doing  to  get 


**No.   6 


> » 


us  entrained,  luggage  counted  and  regis- 
tered, and  when  it  was  finally  done  I 
strolled  across  the  street  for  a  cup  of 
coffee  in  one  of  the  typical  little  cafes  that 
thrive  around  stations  as  do  undertakers 
about  hospitals,  or  tombstone  carvers 
about  cemeteries.  It  was  a  curious  little 
corner  of  the  world,  this,  where  poilus 
and  officers  have  their  coffee  together.  I 
shared  my  table  with  a  French  officer, 
like  myself  off  for  the  front,  who  kept 
impatiently  looking  at  his  watch.  Pres- 
ently he  jumped  up  with  a  smile,  "Ah! 
te  voila,"  and  she  threw  her  arms  around 
his  neck  and  kissed  him  as  I  myself  should 
have  liked  to  be  kissed.  It  is  good  to  have 
some  one  who  is  sorry  you  are  going.  I 
gulped  down  my  coffee  and  left  them  to 
be  alone — but  not  alone  as  I  was. 

Sadly  I  looked  over  my  shoulder  to 


**No.   6*^ 3 

bid  Paris  good-bye — good-bye  for  a  while 
or  maybe  more. 

They  are  brave,  these  French  women 
who  come  to  take  leave  of  their  men.  A 
silent  embrace,  a  wistful  smile,  a  tear, 
those  they  love  are  going,  God  only  knows 
where,  a  shrill  whistle,  a  slamming  of 
doors,  and  slowly  as  if  loath  to  take  them 
away  the  long  train  pulls  out  of  the  sta- 
tion. 

We  were  in  all  43.  Five  compartments 
seating  eight  had  been  reserved  for  our 
men  and  an  extra  compartment  for  our 
French  Lieutenant  and  our  officers.  One 
of  the  compartments  was  occupied  by 
several  women,  a  cross  little  man  and  two 
soldiers,  and  I  was  amazed  when  they 
refused  to  move  although  our  French 
Lieutenant  requested  them  to  do  so  most 
politely.     Another  sign   that   France   is 


**No.   6 


9  > 


tired  of  it  all — this  lack  of  respect  for 
the  military  and  the  lack  of  authority  the 
military  have,  for  it  was  necessary  to  call 
the  "chef  du  train"  to  persuade  the  cross 
little  man  to  move. 

Our  train  crawls  along,  stopping  every 
now  and  again  because  of  the  tremendous 
traffic.  Sanitary  trains  pulling  in,  troop 
trains  pulling  out,  supply  trains,  muni- 
tion trains,  all  have  to  be  kept  moving  to 
keep  the  business  of  war  going. 

The  stations  we  come  to  are  all  crowded 
with  soldiers,  the  roads  we  pass  with  more 
soldiers,  and  long  convoys;  our  train,  al- 
though a  civilian  one,  carried  scarcely 
any  civilians;  soldiers,  nothing  but  sol- 
diers.    France  is  indeed  giving  her  all. 

We  were  able  to  lunch  as  there  was 
a  *Svagon  restaurant"  attached  and  an  ex- 
cellent   lunch     it    was.      Hors-d'oeuvre 


**No.   6*' 5 

scrambled  eggs,  boiled  beef,  vegetables, 
salad,  cheese  with  wine  and  coffee,  a  lunch 
that  certainly  would  not  suggest  war  and 
a  train,  were  it  not  for  the  women  who 
serve  and  the  black  bread. 

At  Bar  le  Due  we  made  a  long  stop. 
Jellies  and  jams  made  it  famous  in  the 
past.  Verdun  has  done  so  for  the  future. 
Verdun  is  45  kilometres  from  Bar  le  Due, 
hence  its  importance. 

At  4.30  p.  m.  we  arrived  at  Nancy,  our 
destination  being  the  Automobile  Park. 
There  are  several  such  parks,  one  at  Ver- 
sailles, another  at  Chalons,  but  it  is  here 
that  our  section  is  to  receive,  officially, 
its  ambulances  from  the  French  govern- 
ment and  our  first  "ordre  de  mouvement," 
as  yet  unknown. 

We  remained  in  the  station  while  our 
Lieutenant   telephoned   to   the  pare   for 


6 **No.   6*^ 

camions  to  transport  our  luggage  and  our- 
selves and  we  had  occasion  to  observe  the 
damage  done  by  Boche  aeroplanes. 
Nancy  is  constantly  bombed  and  the 
wrecked  portion  of  the  station  is  the  re- 
sult of  a  raid  a  fortnight  ago.  Directly 
across  the  square  from  the  station  an  enor- 
mous hole  in  the  ground  is  all  that  is  left 
of  a  cafe,  also  demolished  by  a  bomb. 

In  due  course  the  camions  arrived  and 
we  proceeded  to  the  park,  the  Lieutenant 
and  myself  with  our  chief  in  his  motor, 
as  we  had  to  attend  to  the  never-ceasing 
details. 

What  a  beautiful  city  this  capital  of 
Lorraine,  with  its  wonderful  cathedral 
fortunately  intact  in  spite  of  the  German 
vandals,  its  splendid  square  and  noble 
statue  of  Stanislaus,  Due  de  Lorraine,  Roi 
de  Pologne. 


**No.   6** 7 

The  park,  covering  many  acres,  is  just 
beyond  the  city  limits.  Here  are  housed 
thousands  of  camions  curiously  painted 
to  disguise  them  as  a  bit  of  the  heavens, 
a  clump  of  trees  or  a  part  of  the  land- 
scape. Camionettes,  kitchen  motors,  am- 
bulances, ravitaillement  busses,  that  in 
other  days  jolted  the  Parisians  through 
the  streets  of  Paris,  tractors,  staff  cars  and 
a  miscellaneous  collection  of  automobiles 
of  all  kinds,  amongst  them  our  twenty 
Fiats,  our  homes  and  companions  for  the 
next  six  months. 

We  dined  in  the  soldiers'  mess.  Our 
comrades,  the  poilus,  cannot  complain 
for  their  fare  is  good  and  plentiful,  more 
so  than  at  Sandricourt,  and  they  have  an 
excellent  canteen  where  beer,  wine,  choc- 
olate, eggs  and  many  other  luxuries  can 
be  had  very  cheap,  for  it  is  run  under  an 


8 **No.   6** 

efficient  co-operative  system.  Two  large 
rooms  have  been  assigned  to  us  with  a 
washing  room  between  so  we  are  com- 
fortably billeted.  The  journey  was  a  long 
and  tedious  one,  and  we  are  glad  to  turn 
in. 

At  9.30  the  bugle  sounds  to  the  tune  of 
"La  dame  blanche"  and  our  lights  go 
out.  We  shall  dream  to-night  *'d'une 
dame  blanche"  and  wake  up  to-morrow 
for  our  first  day's  service  in  the  French 
army. 


Tuesday,  yth  August. 

The  bugles  that  put  us  to  sleep  wake  us 
up — but  going  to  bed  and  getting  up  have 
always  been  a  different  tune. 

"Est  ce  qu'il  y  a  des  malades?"  asks  a 
sous  officier,  popping  his  head  through 
the  door.  "Non,  heureusement,  pas  de 
malades."  We  are  allowed  to  fetch  our 
coffee  from  the  kitchen,  cafe  au  lit  instead 
of  cafe  au  lait. 

A  careful  inventory  of  the  cars  must 
be  made  before  we  take  them  over,  a  tedi- 
ous undertaking  lasting  all  day. 

As  officier  de  liaison  I  wasinvitedby  the 
Adjutant  of  the  park  to  mess  with  their 
officers.  After  dinner  we  were  asked  by 
these  hospitable  fellows  to  partake  of  beer 
and  wine  and  of  what  the  mess  afforded. 

9 


lo  **No.   6 


» > 


An  old  piano  sadly  out  of  tune  was 
wheeled  into  the  room,  and  they  sang  for 
us  "chansons  tristes  et  chansons  gaies" 
music  that  took  them  back  to  their  pays 
and  those  they  left  there  three  years  ago; 
more  than  one  note,  I  fancy,  ended  in  a 
gulp.  We  too  sang  for  them,  different 
songs  that  mean  the  same. 

The  Boches  will  not  come  to-night;  it 
is  too  dark.    We  shall  sleep  undisturbed. 

GERMAN  MUSIC 

What  is  this  music  of  the  guns 

That  grumble,  snarl  and  roar? 

It  is  the  music  of  the  Huns 

The  ones  who  made  us  war. 

Too  true  has  proved  their  Hymn  of  Hate — 

The  tune  their  deeds  have  taught — 

Sing!  let  it  chant  their  fate, 

Sing!  the  dirge  they  brought, 

And  make  them  dance  the  Dance  Macabre — 

The  dance  they  madly  sought. 


Wednesday,  8th  August. 

To-day  we  received  our  cars  and  be- 
gan the  work  of  overhauling  them.  They 
have  seen  two  years'  service,  at  Verdun 
last  September  and  elsewhere.  Poor  lit- 
tle Fiats,  they  too  are  a  bit  tired. 

Our  car  is  No.  6  and  has  been  chris- 
tened Marguerite  Winston.  First  of  all, 
M.  W.  is  taken  off  to  the  hose  to  be 
washed  clean  of  mud,  blood  and  coo- 
ties. We  are  not  yet  hardened  and  shud- 
der at  the  dark  red  spots  on  the  brancards, 
on  the  floor,  even  on  the  ceiling.  God! 
how  it  must  have  spurted  as  she  bumped 
in  and  out  of  the  shell  holes. 

We  hear  that  we  shall  probably  "roll" 
in  the  morning  and  as  orders  have  come 
to  have  the  cars  in  readiness  we  cannot  un- 


II 


^2 **No.   6^^ 

dertake  much  to-day.  No.  6  will  go  with 
a  little  persuasion,  that  is  always  some- 
thing. 

I  gave  a  dinner  at  the  Hotel  de  Thiers 
and  No.  6  was  duly  christened  with  a  bot- 
tle of  champagne.  ^^Bonne  chanee,  petite 
voiture  de  misericorde;  don't  ever  fail  us 
when  they  are  waiting  for  you." 


Thursday,  Qth  August. 

We  leave  for  St.  Nicholas  du  Port,  Deo 
(and  the  Fiats)  volente,  at  8.30.  Break- 
fast at  7,  cars  examined,  good-bye  to  the 
commandant  and  the  adjutant,  at  8  we 
fall  in  to  receive  orders,  8.15  conductors 
at  the  wheel  and  assistants  at  the  crank. 
8.25  one  shrill  whistle — turn  them  over, 
two  shrill  whistles — signal  ready  to  start. 
8.30  one  whistle  to  start.  The  Lieuten- 
ant's stafif  car  moves  slowly  out  of  the 
park,  followed  by  the  twenty  good  little 
Fiats  all  on  their  best  behaviour,  and  so 
begins  our  first  convoy  to  St.  Nicholas, 
thirteen  kilometres  away. 

It  is  very  interesting,   this   first  little 

journey  over  dusty  roads  that  wind  their 

way   along   the   picturesque   canal;    the 

13 


14  **No.   6 


> » 


banks  are  green  and  shady,  the  waters 
dirty  and  placid,  with  only  a  little  ripple 
to  mark  the  wake  of  a  passing  barge  or  a 
little  fish  that  here  and  there  patient  fish- 
ermen are  trying  to  take.  Not  so  the 
dusty  roads  with  their  endless  stream  of 
convoys  and  soldiers  ever  on  the  march. 
We  halt  outside  of  St.  Nicholas  while  our 
officers  go  on  ahead  to  arrange  for  our 
cantonment.  No.  20  had  a  panne  but  re- 
joined us;  the  camion  had  a  panne  and 
is  lost  forever.  It  would  be  funny  were 
it  not  such  a  disaster. 

Every  section  should  have  three  cam- 
ions, an  "atelier,"  a  "cuisine,"  and  a  third 
for  tents,  tables  and  other  equipment.  We 
are  now  without  any. 

Our  quarters  having  been  arranged  for, 
we  move  on,  through  St.  Nicholas, — St. 
Nicholas  du  Port,  if  you  please,  because 


of  the  canal  with  the  dirty  placid  waters. 
We  rattle  through  the  quaint  streets,  over 
the  cobbles,  to  the  delight  of  hundreds 
of  dirty  little  urchins  and  their  terrified 
mothers,  and  turning  into  the  rue  St.  Jo- 
lain  come  to  a  stop  in  front  of  the  old 
"brasserie"  where  we  have  been  billeted. 

A  courtyard  piled  high  with  manure 
and  rubbish  in  one  corner,  a  latrine  in 
the  other,  a  rickety  stairway  leading  to  a 
loft  and  two  large  rooms,  just  evacuated 
by  poilus  who  reluctantly  left  such  lux- 
ury; soft  straw  fairly  clean,  and  a  roof. 
The  straw  was  not  left  without  inhabi- 
tants, however,  as  those  of  us  who  cleaned 
it  up  found  out  to  our  dismay. 

We  have  for  cook  one  Coquelin,  a 
cousin,  so  he  says,  of  that  other  great  art- 
ist, late  of  the  "Automobile  Pare  de 
Nancy."     Thirty-five  years  of  cooking, 


i6  **No.   6 


f  f 


five  years  of  pastry,  with  medals,  ribands 
and  diplomas  to  attest.  His  art  must  not 
be  criticised  to-day  for  there  is  only 
"singe"  and  cheese  and  Pinard,  but  he 
promises  wonders  when  we  are  installed, 
as  "Monsieur  shall  see,"  but  "Monsieur" 
is  doubtful,  for  Coquelin  has  an  infamous 
reputation;  the  old  rascal  is  always  drunk, 
they  say. 

All  afternoon  they  worked,  these  good 
fellows  who  laugh  and  never  complain 
and  when  evening  came  the  courtyard 
was  a  kitchen,  a  dining-room,  a  shower- 
bath  and  many  other  things  besides.  The 
Lieutenant  is  loge  down  the  street  at  No. 
26  where  I  too  have  a  room.  We  dine  as 
the  sun  sets  over  Nancy  and  the  Avions 
circle  overhead.  Night  comes  on,  with 
it  the  stars  that  bring  contentment,  and 
maybe  the  Boches. 


Friday,  August  1 0th. 

The  work  that  could  not  be  done  at  the 
pare  is  begun.  Twenty  little  Fiats  lined 
up  in  a  row  in  the  rue  St.  Jolain,  sur- 
rounded by  gamins,  present  a  pitiful  ap- 
pearance, as  dirty  greasy  fellows  in  over- 
alls, with  hammers  and  wrenches  tear 
out  their  vitals;  but  they  will  be  patched 
up  again  bye  and  bye  as  a  surgeon  patches 
up  a  patient  when  his  operation  is  done, 
and  will,  we  hope,  show  their  gratitude  in 
the  way  motors  should. 

Coquelin  produced  a  very  savoury  rab- 
bit stew  for  dinner  and  afterwards  we 
strolled  off  to  town  for  cofifee  at  the  "Fai- 
san  d'Or,"  St.  Nicholas'  smartest  cafe, 
frequented  by  the  military,  where  your 

officer    sips    his    coffee    and    the    poilu 

17 


i8 **No.   6^* 

drinks  his  "bock"  side  by  side — why  not? 
Will  they  not  be  side  by  side  in  a  grave 
later  on? 

The  chimes  in  the  old  cathedral  ring, 
the  evening  service  is  over.  We  must 
hurry  back  through  the  quiet  little  streets. 
It  is  such  a  beautiful  night  that  the  lights 
must  not  shine;  only  a  few  miles  away 
as  the  crows  and  the  Fokkers  fly  are  the 
German  lines. 

A  great  honour  has  been  conferred 
upon  me.  I  have  been  appointed  "Popo- 
tier"  of  Section  59  and  bon  gre,  mal  gre 
must  accept.  The  duties  of  a  popotier 
are  to  look  after  the  popote  or  mess.  A 
morning  conference  with  Monsieur 
Coquelin,  who  decidedly  is  not  all  there, 
to  compose  the  menu,  a  trip  to  market  to 
bargain  with  the  old  ladies  in  the  square 
for  onions  and  salad,  these  are  the  func- 


**No.   6** 19 

tions  of  the  unhappy  popotier — in  their 
way  of  vast  importance. 

I  am  having  built  by  the  carpenter  and 
coffin  maker  two  cases  for  provisions  to 
fit  on  the  running  board  of  No.  6.  He 
will  make  me  a  very  special  price  be- 
cause his  boy  was  carried  in  one  of  our 
ambulances. 

"His  company  left  the  trenches  for  an 
attack  on  a  Friday  at  10.  They  were 
obliged  to  retreat  after  being  cut  to  pieces 
by  machine  gun  fire  and  he  fell  in  a 
shell  hole  with  a  ball  in  the  knee  and 
another  in  the  shoulder.  There  he  spent 
the  night  side  by  side  with  a  dead  friend 
for  a  companion.  The  following  day  his 
company  attacked  again,  and  again  were 
repulsed.  Unable  to  move,  there  he  re- 
mained between  the  lines  until  Sunday, 
when  a  sergeant  saw  him  and  crawled 


20 **No.   6*^ 

out  with  a  flask.  That  night  two  soldiers 
came  with  a  stretcher  and  he  was  carried 
away  to  a  dressing  station,  and  from  there 
taken  in  one  of  your  ambulances,  Mon- 
sieur, to  a  hospital." 

"Did  he  get  well?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur,  if  it  is  well  to  have 
but  one  leg." 

"Monsieur  will  have  the  cases  day 
after  to-morrow." 


Saturday,  nth  August. 

All  morning  it  rained,  but  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  day  a  beautiful  rainbow 
brought  a  beautiful  afternoon;  the  clouds 
that  trouble  the  heavens  blow  away  as  do 
the  clouds  that  trouble  our  lives. 

"lis  viendront  ce  soir,"  says  a  wise  old 
fellow  who  sits  in  my  doorway  smoking 
his  pipe.  He  cocks  his  eye  up  at  the  sky 
in  the  manner  of  an  old  tar.  They  reef 
the  sheets  when  the  sailor  shakes  his  head 
in  his  knowing  way,  for  it  will  surely 
storm;  they  get  the  keys  of  the  cellar 
when  my  friend  shakes  his  head  in  his 
knowing  way,  for  it  means  a  raid. 

In  the  evening  after  a  long  day  in  and 
about  and  under  the  car  we  went  as  usual 
to  the  Pheasant.    As  I  passed  through  the 


21 


22  **No.    6 


»  > 


crooked  little  streets  on  the  door  of  every 
house  there  is  the  sign  "Cave  voutee"  with 
20,  sometimes  50  places,  and  I  thought  of 
my  wise  old  fellow  smoking  his  pipe  in 
the  doorway.  For  three  years  they  have 
been  dropping  bombs  on  this  little  town, 
a  few  miles  back  of  the  front  lines,  so 
when  the  alarum  sounds  and  you  hear  the 
whir  of  the  Boche  planes  overhead,  St. 
Nicholas  becomes  a  deserted  city.  The 
inhabitants  quickly  disappear  ofif  the 
streets  and  into  their  cellars  away  from 
the  rain  of  shrapnel  of  the  French  "75's" 
and  the  occasional  bomb  that  blows  up  a 
whole  post-office,  as  it  did  the  one  by  the 
bridge  a  week  ago. 

The  anti-aircraft  guns  in  the  distance 
are  very  active  to-night — yes!  they  will 
surely  come. 

Sitting  at  the  little  tables  at  the  Pheas- 


**No,   6*^ 23 

ant  we  can  see  the  rockets  and  the  white 
puffs  of  the  bursting  shells  over  Nancy, 
and  as  we  walk  back  up  the  hill  the 
alarum  sounds — a  bugle  and  the  cathe- 
dral bells. 

It  is  hard  to  conceive  the  magnificence 
of  it  all,  hard  to  believe  that  death  comes 
from  the  heavens  where  one  sees  only  the 
stars;  but  the  great  search-lights  that  play 
in  every  direction  see  more  than  we,  and 
where  they  point  myriads  of  shells  burst, 
dimming  the  stars.  Presently  our  guns 
join  in,  all  around  us  they  roar.  The 
Germans  fly  low,  very  low,  the  better  to 
avoid  our  guns  that  cannot  fire  so  well  at 
a  low  angle. 

Sitting  in  my  little  window  I  can  dis- 
tinctly hear  the  whirring  propellers,  di- 
rectly overhead  they  sound,  and  you  won- 
der— then  they  are  gone.     One  by  one 


24  **No.   6 


> » 


the  guns  cease;  in  the  distance  you  hear 
them  again;  the  stillness  is  extraordinary 
after  so  much  din.  ''C'est  fini  pour  ce 
soir,"  for  they  seldom  return. 

It  is  all  so  fascinating  that  one  feels 
nothing  else  except  possibly  a  strange  sen- 
sation of  disappointment  that  nothing  has 
happened  after  all. 

The  good  people  leave  their  cellars  to 
the  rats  once  more.  Across  the  courtyard 
the  tread  of  weary  feet,  old  women  with 
clanking  keys  and  the  wise  old  man  who 
smokes  his  pipe  in  the  doorway;  when  he 
nods  his  head  in  his  knowing  way  the 
storm  is  surely  over  and  it  is  time  to  go 
to  bed. 


Sunday,  I2th  August. 

Car  No.  i  in  charge  of  the  ravitaille- 
ment  this  week  is  being  overhauled.  No. 
6  has  volunteered,  so  at  5  we  get  up  and 
with  the  "marechal  des  logis"  proceed  to 
the  station  of  Varangeville  where  we 
shall  receive  our  20  loaves  of  black  bread 
and  40  litres  of  red  wine,  the  famous 
Pinard,  from  the  ravitaillement  train  in 
exchange  for  our  "bons."  It  is  early 
when  we  arrive  but  already  there  are 
camions  large  and  small,  crowded  about 
the  siding,  come  from  far  and  near  to 
get  their  bread  and  Pinard,  too. 

I    learned    from    the    waiting    poilus 

many  new  words  in  a  language  quite  their 

own,  and  a  most  excellent  expression  to 

use  if  ever  a  camion  backs  into  you,  al- 

25 


26 **No.   6^^ 

most  crushing  your  toe,  all  of  which  hap- 
pened to  an  eloquent  little  fellow  from 
the  ''midi." 

The  daily  allowance  of  meat  per  man 
is  350  grammes,  so  off  to  the  "abattoirs" 
for  our  beef  or  mutton,  whichever  it  may 
be.  In  a  great  courtyard  many  more 
camions  waiting  their  turn,  in  a  pen  the 
unfortunate  beasts  waiting  to  have  their 
throats  slit,  in  a  huge  Paris  bus  the  di- 
vided carcasses  of  the  unfortunate  beasts 
whose  throats  were  slit  that  soldiers 
might  live  to  slit  others;  all  very  degrad- 
ing and  disgusting. 

Surrounded  by  enormous  butchers, 
what  makes  them  so  enormous  I  do  not 
know;  what  makes  them  so  ferocious  I 
can  guess — surrounded  by  enormous 
butchers  with  bloody  aprons  and  drip- 
ping knives,  I  cannot  help  but  think  that 


«  <  M^        C  »  » 


No.   6*^ 27 

Tolstoy  and  my  vegetarian  friend  Trou- 
betskoy  are  right;  but  dinner  will  come 
and  I  shall  be  hungry,  the  bleatings  will 
be  forgotten;  one  must  forget,  to  eat  a 
chop. 

There  is  a  co-operative  store  in  most 
of  the  cantonments  administered  for  the 
army  where  further  supplies  are  ob- 
tained. This  is  the  method  by  which 
France  feeds  her  armies. 

A  call  at  the  Jardiniere  on  the  way 
home  for  vegetables  and  the  popotiers 
work  is  done  for  the  day. 

Last  night  the  first  call  for  an  ambu- 
lance was  received  from  Pulligny,  23 
kilometres  away.  No.  2  went,  bringing 
back  two  "malades  assis"  to  the  "hopital 
du  camp."  This  morning  Nos.  3  and  4 
went  out  on  similar  errands,  so  No.  5  is 


28 **No.   6** 

"en  planton,"  and  as  cars  go  out  in  their 
order,  No.  6  is  in  reserve. 

This  is  our  first  work.  We  are  at- 
tached to  the  17th  Division,  the  9th  corps 
of  the  8th  Army,  and  as  our  division  is 
"en  repos,"  this  will  probably  be  the  sort 
of  work  we  shall  have  to  do  for  the  pres- 
ent. It  is  not  very  interesting;  we  should 
prefer  active  service.  Our  Frenchmen 
smile  in  their  quiet  way;  they  have  had 
three  years  of  it,  a  bit  of  everything,  so 
they  are  pleased  when  they  are  "en  re- 
pos." 

Rain!  how  often  it  rains  in  Lorraine! 
They  say  that  the  atmospheric  disturb- 
ances caused  by  the  continuous  bombard- 
ment is  the  cause. 

After  dinner  we  read  in  the  papers 
about  last  night's  raid.  The  Boches  did 
no  damage  but  they  escaped  as  they  al- 


**No.    6*^ 29 

most  always  do;  a  plane  is  a  very  small 
thing  and  the  heavens  very  big. 

My  little  room  under  the  eaves  is  not 
very  luxurious,  but  there  is  a  lamp  to  read 
by  and  the  rain  patters  on  the  outside  of 
a  window  pane.  Not  so  far  away 
stretch  the  miles  of  trenches;  there  are 
no  eaves  nor  are  there  window  panes  for 
the  rain  to  patter  against.  How  often  it 
rains  in  Lorraine  1 


Sunday,  I2th  August. 
Car  No.  5  went  out  early  this  morn- 
ing, so  No.  6  is  ''en  planton,"  interfering 
with  our  plans  for  the  day.  I  had  hoped 
to  go  to  mass  to  the  great  cathedral  that 
has  stood  for  all  time.  St.  Nicholas  has 
always  preserved  it  even  during  the 
Thirty  Years  War,  when  the  town  was 
destroyed  by  fire,  and  during  the  war  of 
1870;  and  so  he  always  will,  the  good 
people  tell  you.  The  devout  believe  that 
only  he  could  have  stopped  the  German 
invasion  when  the  town  was  threatened  in 
1914.  Your  patron  saint  did  well,  my 
friends;  St.  Nicholas  would  have  fared 
no  better  than  Rheims  or  Louvain  at  the 
hands  of  the  barbarians. 

A   rheure   de   la   soupe,    12.30  by  the 

30 


**No.   6*^ 31 

clock,  a  call  came  for  an  ambulance,  two 
"assis"  to  be  evacuated  from  Pulligny, 
two  from  Frolois,  so  there  is  no  soupe 
and  No.  6  starts  out  upon  its  first  errand 
of  mercy.  By  the  aid  of  our  maps  we 
find  our  way  over  the  rolling  hills, 
through  Menancourt  past  the  aviation 
camps,  through  the  green  woods  and 
golden  wheat  fields,  where  ever  watchful 
batteries  of  good  75's  are  concealed. 
Several  regiments  of  our  division  are 
quartered  at  Frolois.  In  a  dirty  narrow 
little  street  we  stop  before  a  stable  with 
a  red  cross  sign.  This  is  the  "infirm- 
erie";  a  courtyard  with  benches  for  the 
convalescing,  a  low-ceiled  room  with 
heaps  of  straw  upon  which  are  lying  hud- 
dled up  in  their  blankets  numerous 
"malades."  In  a  far  corner  is  the  oper- 
ating department,  a  stretcher  upon  two 


32    **No.   6*' 

wooden  horses  with  a  bucket  beneath  and 
a  table  beside  with  bottles  of  disinfectants 
and  surgical  instruments. 

We  collect  our  two  "malades,"  tagged 
and  labelled  like  so  much  luggage,  and 
proceed  through  the  usual  crowd  of  filthy 
children  in  the  direction  of  PuUigny 
where  we  take  on  two  more;  one  of  them 
a  great  Senegal  black,  who  makes  consid- 
erable fuss  at  having  to  leave  his  belong- 
ings and  his  rifle  with  the  bayonet  he 
loves  so  well.  However,  the  thought  of 
a  ride  in  a  very  smart  ambulance  con- 
soles him,  and  he  shows  his  delight  and  a 
row  of  white  teeth  in  a  grin  of  satisfac- 
tion. Out  of  the  four,  three  have  been 
afflicted  with  the  same  horrible  disease, 
the  fourth  has  probably  been  saved  by  a 
badly  fractured  arm. 

From    Pulligny    we    return    to    the 


**No.   6^^ 33 

"Hopital  de  Triage"  or  clearing  hospital 
where  they  and  their  papers  are  exam- 
ined. One  is  assigned  to  the  "Hopital  du 
Camp" — an  excellent  establishment  built 
by  the  Germans  for  their  wounded  in 
1870 — and  the  others  to  Jarville,  an 
evacuation  hospital  just  outside  Nancy. 
Good  little  No.  6  has  performed  its  first 
task  and  the  day's  work  is  over. 

In  a  little  cafe  on  the  way  back  we  find 
some  beer  and  cheese,  and  in  a  little  gar- 
ret where  the  rain  beats  against  the  win- 
dow, a  night's  rest. 


Monday,  August  ijth. 
There  is  so  little  to  do  while  our  divi- 
sion remains  "en  repos"  that  our  car  will 
probably  not  be  called  out  again,  so  we 
have  permission  to  go  over  the  motor,  a 
two  days'  job.  There  is  very  little  activ- 
ity at  the  front  but  always  a  certain  move- 
ment of  troops.  This  afternoon  two 
fresh  regiments  passed  down  the  hill  and 
away  to  the  trenches,  cheerful  fellows, 
rested  and  gay,  with  never  a  thought  that 
some  will  not  return.  In  one  hand  a  few 
flowers,  what  remains  of  the  past;  the  fu- 
ture in  the  other,  a  grim  rifle  with  a  "Ro- 
salie" that  shines  in  the  sun.  They  shrug 
their  shoulders  to  shift  their  pack  and 
smile  as  they  wave  good-bye,  whilst  up 
the  hill  with  weary  tread  a  relieved  regi- 

34 


^^No.   6^^  35 

ment  comes  trudging  by.  Covered  with 
mud,  tired  and  footsore,  staggering  un- 
der the  weight  of  their  kit,  no  smile  upon 
their  haggard,  sweaty  faces.  These  poor 
fellows  have  only  the  thought  that  soon 
they  must  return.  Poor  France!  for 
three  years  your  soldiers  have  borne  the 
brunt  of  it. 

WHY? 

Like  canard  de  Rouen  for  slaughter  fattened, 
Like  a  cocotte  dressed  with  every  care, 
Like  a  school  boy  taught  with  pains  unsparing 
To  kill  or  be  killed — out  there. 

By  old  men  and  lads  admired,  flattered, 
Cared  for  by  harlots  who  know  not  how  to  care; 
Wined  and  made  to  feel,  to  want,  to  crave 
To  kill  or  be  killed — out  there. 

By  girls  and  by  old  women  feted,  petted, 
In  villages  that  lead  to  God  knows  where, 
Bringing  you  at  last  to  No  Man's  Land — 
To  kill  or  be  killed — out  there. 


36  **No.   6 


ft 


By  priests  and  patriots  cajoled,  exhorted 
To  care  not  for  the  flesh, — the  soul  bewa 
The  other  was  but  meant,  mon  brave  poilu. 
To  kill  or  be  killed — out  there. 

Oozing  brains  from  a  bashed-in  skull, 
A  face  that  was,  eyes  glassy  and  dull, 
A  hole  in  a  chest  from  a  bayonet  thrust, 
A  shattered  thigh  from  a  shrapnel  "bust," 
A  ripped  open  belly,  bulging  guts, 
Emptying  bowels  in  bloody  shell  ruts, 
Gory  stumps  whence  legs  are  gone, 
Gaping  sockets  whence  arms  are  torn, 
Whiff  of  gas  and  bit  of  shell — 
Almost  welcome  midst  such  hell — 
Left  where  you  fell  to  squirm  and  bleed 
And  rot  and  stink  and  vultures  feed. 

God  in  His  wisdom  the  reason  knows ; 
God  took  you — God  keep  you  is  the  prayer 
Of  some  who  live  because  others  were  doomed 
To  kill  or  be  killed — out  there. 


At   considerable    expense   we    bought 
many  tins  of   Ripolin.     The  *'blanc  de 


**No.   6^* 37 

neige"  removes  the  bloodstains — there 
will  be  others.  No.  6  looks  spick  and 
span  and  is  at  last  ready  for  business ;  very- 
satisfactory,  as  our  cars  are  to  be  inspected 
to-morrow  by  our  Lieutenant  and  some 
other  French  officers. 

After  dinner  we  went  to  the  cinema. 
Everywhere  there  are  cinemas  de  I'armee, 
with  comic  films  to  amuse  the  soldiers. 
This  is  one  of  the  ways  that  France  dis- 
tracts and  diverts  her  armies. 

Coquelin  the  impossible  has  been  sent 
back  to  the  pare  at  Nancy.  The  new 
"cuisto"  is  a  great  improvement. 


Wednesday,  August  1 5th, 

Fete  de  I'Assomption. 

In  all  the  windows  there  are  flowers 
and  in  the  Cathedral  a  special  service  for 
the  Virgin.  We  must  have  something  to 
turn  to  in  moments  of  affliction;  France 
has  become  deeply  religious.  It  is  easy 
to  guess  what  they  have  come  to  pray  for, 
all  these  kneeling  soldiers  in  blue  and 
prostrate  women  in  black. 

In  the  afternoon  I  visited  the  aviation 
camp;  the  sun  was  shining  when  we 
started,  but  before  arriving  it  began  to 
pour  and  we  were  obliged  to  stop  in  a  lit- 
tle shack  for  shelter.  Two  soldiers  of- 
fered us  cans  to  sit  upon,  for  it  was  a 

storehouse   of    petrol    and   essence,    and 

38 


**No.    6^^ 39 

while  we  watched  the  rain  that  fell  in 
torrents  and  waited  for  it  to  let  up,  one 
of  them  told  us  many  tales.  He  was  an 
interesting  fellow,  this  poilu,  with  a 
keen  mind  and  a  rare  sense  of  humour. 

"There  is  no  longer  any  fighting.  Mon- 
sieur, no  battle  of  the  Marne,  where  out 
of  a  company  of  200,  nine  were  left; 
where  men  went  for  four  days  without 
food  or  drink." 

It  is  incredible  that  men  should  be 
alive  after  such  hardships,  incredible 
that  they  should  be  sane  after  such  hor- 
rors. My  friend  with  the  sense  of 
humour  smiles  contentedly,  describing 
how  he  bashed  in  the  bald  pate  of  a  Ger- 
man "tant  qu'il  y  avait  de  la  tete  je  tapais 
dessus";  and  he  roars  with  laughter  at 
the  thought  of  his  comrade  Josef, — Josef 


40  **No.    6 


» > 


waving  his  arms  and  shouting  frantically, 
'Trends  garde,  v'la  un  Boche  qui  te 


5) 

Vise. 


"Just  then,  Monsieur,  a  bullet  came 
into  Josef's  mouth,  in  one  jaw,  out  of  the 
other,  shooting  away  a  handful  of  teeth; 
that's  all,  Monsieur,  just  the  teeth,  n'est 
ce  pas  drole?" 

But  a  far-away  look  comes  into  his 
eyes  as  he  thinks  of  his  "pays  la  has"; 
seriously  he  asks  when  the  Americains 
are  coming,  when  it  will  be  over. 

In  my  opinion  it  will  never  end  under 
the  present  conditions  of  fighting;  the  re- 
sources of  men  and  money  are  greater 
than  the  destruction.  The  economic  col- 
lapse of  Germany,  some  great  invention, 
a  revolution,  labour  or  socialistic  troubles, 
the  complete  mastery  of  the  air,  thousands 
of  air  planes  to  fly  across  the  Rhine  when 


**No.   6''  41 

the  harvests  are  golden  and  could  be  de- 
stroyed by  incendiary  bombs,  something 
of  this  sort  will  be  necessary. 

My  friend  agrees,  popping  shells  back 
and  forth  to  kill  a  few  poor  devils  in  a 
trench  who  will  be  replaced  by  as  many 
more  is  useless. 

We  visited  the  many  hangars,  huge 
tents  housing  seven  or  eight  planes,  Nieu- 
ports  of  the  latest  type  and  Spads  with 
their  wonderful  Hispano  Suiza  motor, 
capable  of  making  200  kilometres. 

The  age  limit  is  25  years,  so  the  aviators 
are  mere  boys;  extraordinary  that  at  20 
they  can  have  learned  all  the  things  one 
must  know  to  be  a  pilot;  not  only  know 
how  to  fly,  but  how  to  shoot,  how  to  photo- 
graph, how  to  navigate,  how  to  wireless 
and  a  thousand  other  tricks  of  the  trade 


42  **No.   6'' 

only  taught  by  experience.  It  is  the  most 
gallant  service  of  all,  the  only  service 
where  a  bit  of  chivalry  remains. 

They  fight  fair  and  in  the  open,  and 
when  they  die,  as  they  all  do  soone'*  or 
later,  they  die  as  they  fight,  fair  and  in 
the  open;  better  by  far  than  being  man- 
gled or  crippled  or  gassed. 

A  very  dapper  little  French  captain, 
the  commander  of  the  camp,  came  and 
spoke  to  us.  Curiously  enough  he  first 
flew  with  Bleriot,  whom  I  dined  with  not 
so  many  years  ago  when  he  arrived  in 
London  after  his  flight  across  the  Chan- 
nel. Thanks  to  the  Captain's  wireless  op- 
erator, I  have  the  interesting  photos  taken 
over  St.  Nicholas  and  surrounding  coun- 
try. 

A  weary  trudge  back  to  St.  Nicholas 


**No.   6"  43 

and  the  Pheasant  for  dinner,  then  bed — 
then  sleep,  undisturbed  by  the  Fokkers 
whose  wings,  too,  have  been  clipped  by 
the  rain. 


Friday,  IJth  August. 

The  amount  of  labour  entailed  by  war 
is  appalling.  For  the  few  million  soldiers 
actually  fighting,  millions  and  millions 
are  working,  amongst  them  ourselves,  all 
day  it  lasts.  *'En  repos"  has  no  other 
meaning;  and  these  days  of  no  importance 
are  occupied  cleaning,  adjusting,  paint- 
ing. Cars  are  like  women,  just  as  vain, 
just  as  perverse,  requiring  just  as  much 
attention,  and  often  not  any  more  grate- 
ful. 

The  post  arrives  with  news  of  the  out- 
side world,  both  good  and  bad,  and  one 
is  a  day  nearer  the  end. 


44 


Saturday,  l8th  August. 

We  are  still  without  equipment.  It  is 
doubtful  if  we  shall  ever  have  any.  A 
soldier's  life  these  days  is  not  so  certain 
as  his  death,  so  we  have  decided  on  a  trip 
to  Nancy  to  purchase  kitchen  supplies; 
the  *'popote"  will  be  bankrupt  but  the 
chef  happy  and  much  of  our  happiness 
depends  upon  his.  Nancy  was  being 
bombed  by  German  avions  but  the  little 
white  pufifs  in  the  blue  sky  were  not  over 
the  road.  When  we  returned  we  learned 
that  they  had  come  to  St.  Nicholas  also, 
one  of  them  to  stay. 

A  little  old  man  of   14,  tattered  and 

torn,  footsore  and  weary,  wandered  into 

camp  looking  for  a  crust  and  a  pile  of 

straw.    His  story  is  that  of  thousands  of 

45 


46  **No.   6^^ 

others  without  a  home  or  parents;  the 
Germans  could  account  for  both  in  differ- 
ent ways. 

Augustin  Lombard,  poor  little  chap,  is 
taken  in  and  will  work  for  the  run  of 
his  teeth  while  the  section  remains  here. 

We  have  heard  nothing  as  yet  about 
our  movements,  but  we  are  anxious  to  go 
now  that  No.  6  is  ready. 


Sunday,  igth  August. 
The  warm  sun  is  shining,  it  is  too  beau- 
tiful to  work,  almost  too  beautiful  to  fight. 
Many  of  us  went  to  mass.  Catholics  and 
Protestants  alike  seem  to  need  a  bit  of 
religion.  The  new  chef,  who  is  quite  a 
"cordon  bleu,"  surpassed  himself  and  the 
popotier  supplied  cakes  from  the  best 
patisserie,  but  the  Germans  came  while 
we  were  lunching;  five  of  them  cruising 
over  our  heads  like  a  battleship  squadron, 
not  any  larger  than  birds  at  such  a  tre- 
mendous height.  The  "soixante  quinze" 
on  all  sides  blaze  away  at  them,  but  how 
hopeless  it  seems;  meanwhile  the  big 
guns,  probably  15  kilometres  away,  are 
firing;   they  are  bombarding  Dombasle 

and  the  usines,  fortunately  with  no  suc- 

47 


48 **No.   6^^      

cess.     God  is  not  with  the  Germans  in 
spite  of  the  Kaiser. 

For  two  hours  it  lasted,  the  blue  sky 
dotted  with  white  puffs,  shrapnel  falling 
with  a  clatter  on  the  roofs,  all  so  imper- 
sonal that  it  seems  foolish.  Finally  they 
disappear  in  the  direction  of  their  lines 
and  it  is  Sunday  once  more.  A  warm 
lazy  day  with  no  work  to  do. 


Monday,  20th  August. 

Sometimes  I  feel  as  if  I  had  gone  very 
far  away  into  a  different  world  where 
there  is  no  time;  the  days  come  and  go 
sometimes  with  nothing  to  do,  for  we  are 
still  "en  repos."  One,  possibly  two  cars 
go  out  each  day,  usually  to  Pulligny  or 
Frolois,  to  evacuate  "malades"  or  poor 
devils  gone  mad.  To-day  we  had  two, 
the  thought  of  having  to  go  back  to  the 
trenches  did  it.  Why  there  are  no  more 
I  do  not  understand,  maybe  because  we 
all  have  had  a  bit  of  madness  inoculated 
into  us  and  are  consequently  immune. 

The  Boches  came  as  usual;  they  never 
neglect  us  when  the  stars  shine,  but  we  are 
getting  blase  and  do  not  bother  turning 
over  in  bed.    The  beds  are  soft  and  have 

49 


50  **No.   6 


» > 


sheets;  soon  there  will  be  no  sheets  unless 
a  winding  one. 

Good  friends  who  visit  this  lonely  spot, 

Weep  not,  weep  not. 
Pray  that  the  soul  to  Heaven  has  got 
Of  the  body  that  stayed  to  rot. 


Tuesday,  2Ist  August. 
The  director  of  the  great  works  at 
Dombasle  asked  us  to  call  upon  him,  so 
we  went  this  afternoon,  and,  together  with 
some  French  officers,  were  shown  over 
their  enormous  plant.  Most  of  the  huge 
machines  that  night  and  day  work  so  well 
for  France  were  made  in  Germany;  that 
is  probably  why  the  Germans  have  tried 
so  hard  for  the  past  three  years  to  destroy 
Dombasle  and  this  particular  usine.  At 
all  events  they  have  bombed  it  incessantly 
and  several  times  caused  great  damage; 
only  a  few  weeks  ago  they  succeeded  in 
demolishing  the  gas-tanks.  The  labour-  ' 
ers  go  about  with  steel  helmets  and  gas- 
masks ever  in  readiness,  prepared  when 

the  alarum  sounds  to  make  for  the  spe- 

51 


<  <  IV^        c  »  » 


52 **No.   6 

cially  constructed  dug-outs  and  other 
safety  refuges  provided.  There  are 
about  2,000  workmen  employed,  a  large 
percentage  being  blacks  from  Africa,  and 
the  number  of  women  has  increased  from 
20  before  the  war  to  300  now.  This  is 
how  France  keeps  her  great  industries 
going. 

We  walked  back  to  the  Pheasant  for 
dinner,  along  the  peaceful  canal,  where 
old  men  fish  and  little  boys  bathe,  past 
the  old  church  at  Rossieres  with  its  over- 
crowded cemetery,  where  women  in  black 
with  eyes  that  are  red  put  fresh  flowers 
on  fresh  graves.  They  must  be  uncom- 
fortable, these  soldiers,  buried  so  close 
together,  but  even  the  cemeteries  were 
not  prepared  for  such  a  war  and  they  are 
not  so  efficient  in  France  as  in  Germany 
^vhere  they  can  use  them  for  glue. 


Wednesday,  22nd  August. 

No.  6  was  repainted  this  morning,  a 
fresh  coat  of  grey  paint  that  makes  No. 
6  very  proud,  and  also  equipped  with 
steel  helmets  and  gas-masks  and  stocked 
with  "singe,"  iodine,  chocolate,  plaster, 
brandy,  pills  and  many  other  things. 
There  is  a  rumour,  the  vague  rumour  that 
comes  from  no  one  knows  where,  that  we 
shall  soon  be  moving.  The  rumour 
grows,  the  "genie"  is  leaving  to-morrow 
and  the  day  after  the  cyclists  go. 

The  rumour  has  been  confirmed  and 
we  shall  leave  Sunday  morning  at  eight, 
we  think  for  Baccarat,  but  that  is  not 
certain.  The  English  in  Flanders  have 
begun  an  offensive;  the  French  at  Verdun 
are  doing  the  same.     To-day  they  ad- 

53 


54  **No.   6 


f  > 


vanced  on  a  15  kilometre  front;  if  it  con- 
tinues we  may  go  in  that  direction.  To- 
night the  big  guns  are  very  active,  they 
seem  to  be  calling  us.  Where  the  17th 
goes  we  go. 


Thursday,  2Jrd  August. 

Sunday  we  move  on;  the  poor  devils 
back  into  the  trenches  for  a  whiff  of  gas 
or  a  bit  of  shrapnel;  we,  the  slaughter- 
house department,  to  pick  up  the  pieces. 
We  have  received  orders  to  start  for  Bac- 
carat at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
No.  6  is  ready  so  there  is  nothing  to  do 
in  the  meantime. 

Our  little  vagabond  was  taken  off  to 
town  and  provided  with  a  complete  out- 
fit; after  a  cold  shower  that  I  fear  he  did 
not  altogether  enjoy  he  looks  very  differ- 
ent from  the  forlorn  little  beggar  who 
wandered  into  camp  a  few  days  ago.  The 
bad  news  of  our  moving  was  broken  to 
him  very  gently ;  he  takes  it  all  very  philo- 
sophically, but  in  his  quiet  way  I  think 

55 


56 **No.   6^^ 

certain  plans  are  being  laid,  and  I  have 
an  idea  that  somehow  or  other  he  will 
turn  up  in  Baccarat. 


Friday,  August  24th. 
I  have  a  good  little  friend,  his  years 
are  few  but  his  usefulness  great.  When 
the  unfortunate  popotter  with  his  befud- 
dled brain  has  forgotten  what  the  "cuisto" 
especially  asked  him  not  to  forget,  he 
coasts  down  the  hill  on  his  bicycle  and 
pedals  back  up  again  with  the  butter,  the 
oil  or  the  garlic.  To-day  I  borrowed  his 
bicycle  to  go  to  Vitrimont,  14  kilometres 
away  on  the  road  to  Luneville.  We  took 
the  wrong  path  outside  of  Dombasle  and 
lost  ourselves.  How  easy  to  take  the 
wrong  path  in  this  world  and  lose  our- 
selves! Sometimes  it  is  well  as  in  this 
instance  when  it  led  us  up  a  hill  and 

over  a   ridge  where  suddenly  we  came 

57 


<  <  M  ^         C  »  » 


58 **No.   6      

upon  one  of  the  concealed  batteries  that 
protect  St.  Nicholas. 

We  stopped  to  enquire  the  way  of  some 
officers  who  were  scrutinising  the  heavens 
and  they  showed  us  through  their  glasses 
a  Boche  coming  our  way.  It  is  extraordi- 
nary how  they  observe  them,  these  specks 
in  the  sky.  The  German  travels  fast,  the 
speck  becomes  a  Taube,  and  presently  the 
battery  opens  up  and  the  little  white 
pufTfs  appear  all  around  him.  Another 
battery  is  firing,  too,  and  he  seems  a  bit 
worried  for  he  climbs  and  drops  and 
changes  his  direction,  trying  to  escape  the 
shrapnel  that  bursts  all  about  him. 

It  is  fascinating  to  watch;  sometimes  it 
seems  as  if  he  had  been  hit  but  the  little 
pufifs  blow  away  and  still  he  flies.  It  lasts 
for  half  an  hour  and  then  he  vanishes  into 
a  cloud,   full  speed  on  his  way  home. 


This  is  the  first  time  that  I  have  seen  a 
battery  of  "soixante  quinze"  in  action; 
they  are  marvellous  indeed.  We  wish 
them  better  luck  next  time,  hoping  they 
will  not  be  blown  up  to-night  as  a  result 
of  the  Boche's  observations,  and  continue 
on  our  way. 

Along  the  winding  canal  to  Crepic 
where  I  saw  for  the  first  time  the  unmis- 
takable evidence  of  German  "Kultur." 
Crepic  was  occupied  by  them  for  sev- 
eral days  in  1914  and  Crepic  was  put  to 
the  torch  when  they  were  forced  to  retire. 
The  inhabitants  who  were  able  to  flee  or 
hide  have  returned  to  rebuild  their 
homes;  little  rows  of  graves  here  and 
there  are  the  homes  of  those  who  will  not 
return. 

In  spite  of  a  punctured  tire  we  finally 
arrived  at  Vitrimont.     Before  the  war  it 


6o  **No.   6 


>  > 


was  a  peaceful  little  corner  of  the  world, 
where  the  simple  bourgeois  cultivated  his 
fields  and  fattened  his  pigs,  while  women 
gathered  mirabelles  for  confiture  and 
fattened  the  children.  Then  war  came 
and  the  German  hordes  swept  over  Lor- 
raine, like  a  pest  of  locusts  leaving  desola- 
tion in  their  path.  Fortunately  their  oc- 
cupation did  not  last  long  and  they  with- 
drew rather  precipitately  without  ac- 
complishing their  fiendish  work  as  effi- 
ciently as  German  methods  have  done 
elsewhere.  A  few  homes  and  a  part  of 
the  church  were  left  standing;  out  of  the 
ruins,  like  the  Phoenix  arising  from  the 
ashes,  there  is  arising  to-day  a  new  Vitri- 
mont,  thanks  to  some  American  ladies 
whose  generosity  and  energy  know  no 
bounds.  Vitrimont  is  being  reconstruct- 
ed with  better  streets  and  a  finer  square, 


**No.   6^' 6i 

with  a  drinking-fountain.  The  inhabi- 
tants will  have  modern  houses  with  fur- 
naces to  keep  them  warm  instead  of  heaps 
of  manure  piled  high  in  the  courtyards; 
they  will  have  a  school  and  a  mill  to  grind 
their  wheat. 

It  was  indeed  a  great  pleasure  to  have 
tea  with  the  wonderful  woman  who  is  re- 
sponsible for  this  noble  undertaking,  who 
for  the  past  year  has  lived  here  and  toiled, 
beloved  by  these  good  people  whose  lives 
she  is  also  reconstructing.  We  sat  in  a 
little  summer-house  with  geranium  boxes, 
overlooking  the  green  meadows;  to-day 
all  is  calm  and  peaceful  but  only  eight 
miles  away  are  the  German  guns.  Let  us 
hope  that  they  will  be  silenced  forever  be- 
fore Vitrimont  is  rebuilt. 

A  dusty  ride  back  to  St.  Nicholas,  pur- 
sued by  an  endless  stream  of  camions  that 


62 **No.   6^^ 

ramble  along  the  military  road,  shaded  on 
either  side  by  tall  poplars  and  crosses. 

Fortunately  it  is  a  cloudy  night  so  the 
French  officers  who  command  the  bat- 
tery opposite  our  cantonment  are  able  to 
dine  with  us  at  the  Pheasant. 

A  very  pleasant  company  and  an  in- 
teresting dinner;  to-morrow  we  shall 
dine  with  them  and  the  night  after  some- 
where else,  if  one  can  plan  so  far  ahead. 


Saturday,  2^th  August. 

A  day  of  rest  spent  looking  forward  to 
dining  with  our  friends.  They  have 
promised  us  a  show  if  the  moon  and  the 
Germans  come  out,  so  we  pray  for  the 
clouds  to  blow  away. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  modern  war- 
fare has  become  so  scientific  with  half  the 
brains  of  the  world  trying  to  exterminate 
the  other  half.  The  75  as  adapted  to 
anti-aircraft  purposes  is  very  effective. 
Automatically  and  in  the  fraction  of  a 
second  must  be  made  a  calculation  of  the 
distance  and  the  height  of  a  plane,  its 
speed,  the  velocity  and  direction  of  the 
wind  and  other  conditions  affecting  both 
object  and  projectile,  also  the  necessary 

corrections  and  the  timing  of  the  fuse  to 

63 


64 **No.   6^^ 

detonate  the  shell  where  it  is  figured  the 
plane  will  be.  Occasionally  they  bring 
one  down. 

Eleven  of  us  sat  down  to  dinner  in  the 
little  mess  shack,  painted  by  a  camou- 
flage artist  of  such  real  merit  that  even 
the  birds  are  deceived.  Our  hosts  re- 
member the  cocktail  of  the  night  before, 
so  I  give  the  recipe  of  one  brewed  in  a 
bucket  with  a  lump  of  ice,  which  they 
have  gone  to  such  trouble  to  procure 
from  the  brasserie  of  St.  Nicholas.  Du- 
bonnet, two  eggs,  'Toilu,"  two  lemons 
and  a  dash  of  brandy,  served  in  water 
tumblers;  it  made  a  good,  if  not  alto- 
gether pleasant  start. 

Wonderful  fellows,  these  hospitable 
Frenchmen,  who  seem  to  have  ransacked 
the  country  to  provide  a  most  extraordi- 
nary dinner. 


**No.   6** 65 

Voici  le  menu: 

Canadian  bean  soup 

Melon 

Filet  d'Harengs 

Haricots  verts,  sautes  au  beurre 

Homard,  sauce  mayonnaise 

Filet  de  Boeuf,  pommes  roties. 

Langue  de  Boeuf,  sauce  piquante 
Salade. — Fromage 
Macarons  de  Nancy 
Fruits 
Cafe  noir 
Pinard 
Bourgogne 
Champagne 

Fortunately  the  clouds  did  not  blow 
away  and  the  Germans  did  not  come. 
Damn  the  Germans ;  there  were  not  many 
left  when  we  got  through  with  them.  It 
was  a  happy  night,  like  happy  nights  all 
too  soon  ended.  We  wander  back 
through  the  blackness,  leaving  them  on 
the  top  of  their  hill  to  watch,  leaving 


66  **No.   6 


>  > 


them  with  our  good  wishes  and  the  hope 
that  we  shall  meet  soon  again. 

Starless  night,  tranquil,  still, 

Silent,  calm  the  plain,  the  hill 

But  for  the  murmur  of  countless  souls 

Of  bodies  rotting  in  deep  shell  holes 

Crying  in  anguish  for  vengeance  'til 

Their  wail  is  answered  by  guns  that  kill. 


Sunday,  August  26th. 

A  round  of  the  town  to  pay  up  the 
popote's  accounts.  We  have  lived  high, 
still  they  are  not  many. 

Mass  and  a  wonderful  sermon  upon 
the  lack  of  the  greatest  quality — grati- 
tude; we  cannot  be  without  it  to-day,  we 
who  have  neither  crutches  nor  mourning 
to  wear. 

After  lunch  a  gas-mask  drill;  one  can- 
not be  too  proficient  in  their  use  as  every 
day  they  improve  in  the  pleasant  art  of 
deadly  fumes.  No  longer  does  it  come 
in  great  clouds  that  one  can  see  approach- 
ing. It  comes  now  in  shells  that  burst 
almost  noiselessly,  invisible  and  without 
odour,  toppling  over  a  gun  crew  without 

warning;  it  comes  toward  you  wafted  by 

67 


68  **No. 


>  > 


the  gentle  summer  breezes,  with  the 
sweet  smell  of  violets  or  new-mown  hay, 
but  more  deadly  than  the  "aqua  tofana" 
of  the  Medicis,  to  those  who  neglect  their 
masks. 

After  dinner  there  occurred  the  most 
terrible  calamity.  A  rude  beggar  had 
words  with  the  chef,  a  gentleman  of  great 
temperament.  The  beggar  was  so  un- 
fortunate as  to  call  the  chef  "malhon- 
nete,"  to  which  the  chef  replied  that  the 
beggar  was  an  "espece  de  fumier."  The 
beggar  thereupon  asserted  that  the  chef 
was  an  "embusque,"  and  as  this  was  be- 
yond all  endurance  to  a  gentleman  of 
great  temperament,  the  beggar  was 
driven  from  the  courtyard  with  some  sort 
of  a  murderous  kitchen  implement.  The 
beggar  thereupon  complained  to  the 
Lieutenant  who  attempted  to  rebuke  the 


**No.   6^* 69 

chef,  a  very  unhappy  moment  to  have 
chosen,  as  the  gentleman  of  great  tem- 
perament was  in  such  a  state  of  indigna- 
tion and  rage  that  the  Lieutenant  received 
what  the  chef  had  not  had  time  to  say 
to  the  more  fleet-footed  beggar.  I  ar- 
rived in  time  to  head  off  the  chef  who 
was  running  down  the  hill,  frantically 
gesticulating,  in  pursuit  of  the  Lieuten- 
ant who   had    retreated   to   the   bureau. 

"Nom  de  Dieu,"  said  he,  "they  can 
shoot  me  if  they  will,  but  they  cannot  call 
me  embusque:  no  longer  will  I  cook  for 
the  cochons,  I,  who  have  three  years  of 
service  with  the  colours, — I,  who  have 
never  made  soup  for  others  than  gentle- 
men." 

Here  indeed  was  a  fine  mess.  One 
must  think  quickly  in  such  moments  as 
these  and  handle  such  a  delicate  situa- 


TO **No.   6^* 

tion  with  the  finesse  of  a  Richelieu,  or 
lose  a  jolly  good  cook.  Entreaties  and 
threats  were  of  no  avail,  excuses  and 
promises  in  vain. 

"Monsieur,  I  will  do  anything  for  you, 
my  life,  my  skill  is  at  your  disposal 
always,  but  I  will  no  longer  cook  and  that 
Lieutenant  shall  hear  what  I  have  to  say." 

Luck  was  on  my  side,  however,  for 
just  then  the  threatening  clouds  broke 
and  rain  came  in  torrents  to  cool  the 
ardour  of  the  cook.  Finally  I  persuaded 
him  to  return  under  the  archway  out 
of  the  storm  to  hear  me  further.  Little 
by  little  the  storm  in  the  heavens 
and  in  the  breast  of  the  gentleman  of 
great  temperament  subsided,  we  shook 
hands  and  I  had  his  promise  that  he 
would  allow  the  matter  to  rest  until  to- 
morrow.   Not  an  assured  victory,  but  I 


'*No.   6'* 71 

have  hopes  that  Section  59  will  not  be  de- 
prived of  his  art,  this  gentleman  of  great 
temperament. 

"He  does  his  bit  as  best  he  can 
With  musket,  sword,  or  pot  and  pan." 


Monday,  ZJth  August. 
Our  good  landlady  awakened  us  early; 
poor  soul,  she  is  very  sorry  to  see  us  go 
and  so  touched  with  the  little  plants  we 
sent  her.  "Mais  le  bon  Dieu  vous  gar- 
dera;  vous  reviendrez  et  vous  serez  tou- 
jours  les  bienvenus."  So  we  breakfast, 
the  cars  are  loaded  and  at  9  a.  m.  our  con- 
voy of  twenty  little  Fiats,  headed  by  the 
staff  car,  with  a  camionette  loaned  by  the 
Fare,  bringing  up  the  rear.  We  roll 
slowly  down  the  hill  and  are  off  to  Bac- 
carat for  our  first  active  service  at  the 
front.  It  must  have  rained  hard  last 
night,  the  roads  are  without  dust,  a  god- 
send to  a  convoy.  The  early  morning  is 
crisp  and  cool,  the  scenery  beautiful,  the 

journey  without  incident. 

72 


**No.   6*^ 73 

At  1 1.30,  on  schedule,  we  arrive  at  Bac- 
carat, famous  for  the  glass  that  adorns 
the  white  tables  and  the  game  that  adorns 
the  green.  Four  cars  left  for  the  front 
immediately,  the  others  are  unloaded  and 
will  follow  in  turn;  mine  will  not  come 
until  to-morrow. 

From  beneath  a  dozen  duffle  bags  out 
pops  Augustin  Lombard,  half  squashed 
and  grinning  in  a  sheepish  way.  All 
sorts  of  terrible  things  must  happen  to 
you,  Augustin,  for  disobeying  the  strict 
orders  meant  to  be  disobeyed. 

This  sector  is  very  quiet  at  present,  con- 
sequently there  is  but  little  work;  four 
cars  remain  constantly  on  duty  at  the  four 
towns  of  Montigny,  Badonviller,  Her- 
berviller,  and  Ogerviller,  subject  to 
orders.     They  leave  at   12  o'clock  one 


74  **No.   6 


>  > 


day,  returning  the  next,  making  a  tournee 
de  ramassage  on  the  way. 

We  are  quartered  in  the  great  cristal- 
lerie  that  once  employed  five  thousand 
men  and  is  now  partly  shut  down  and 
partly  operated  by  women  and  children. 

A  busy  afternoon  for  the  popotier,  to 
find  a  mess  hall  and  superintend  the  in- 
stallation of  the  kitchen.  We  succeeded 
in  renting  a  small  room  where  we  shall 
be  very  crowded  but  warm  and  dry. 
Monsieur  le  chef,  a  gentleman  of  great 
temperament,  who  must  be  humoured 
and  pampered  in  order  to  exercise  his  art, 
"parce  que,  mon  Lieutenant,  les  vrais 
chefs  sont  des  artistes,"  Monsieur  le  chef, 
thank  God,  is  contented  with  his  facili- 
ties. He  showed  his  appreciation  by  giv- 
ing us  an  excellent  dinner,  after  which 
we  strolled  to  town  for  coffee. 


(  ( 


No.   6*'  75 


Baccarat  affords  nothing  very  luxuri- 
ous in  the  way  of  cafes.  Good  old  **Fai- 
san  d'or,"  forgive  us  our  mockery!  It  is 
the  way  of  man  and  the  world  only  to  ap- 
preciate things  at  their  true  value  when 
they  have  been  taken  from  us;  so  our 
hearts  are  full  of  regrets  and  longing  for 
the  little  garden  of  the  Pheasant  with  its 
little  tables,  the  cross  old  parrot,  the  ge- 
nial old  lady  who  welcomed  us  with  such 
a  cheery  "Bon  soir"  and  the  dear  little 
girl  who  brought  the  coffee  and  the 
"poilu." 

War  and  the  Germans  have  left  their 
traces  in  Baccarat.  Half  the  cathedral 
including  the  steeple  has  been  shot  away, 
half  the  town  has  been  razed  by  fire.  The 
Huns  as  usual  before  withdrawing  ap- 
plied the  torch. 

Baccarat  is   a   centre  of  considerable 


76  **No.   6 


y  » 


military  importance;  it  is  here  that  Gen- 
eral Marchand  of  Fachoda  fame  makes 
his  headquarters,  and  it  is  from  here  that 

the  front  lines  as  far  as and  as  far 

east  as are  fed  with  men,  munitions 

and  food. 

Never  ceasing  convoys  arrive  and 
leave,  artillery  trains  come  and  go  con- 
stantly, the  weary  infantry  pass  through 
on  their  way  back  into  the  trenches  or  on 
their  way  out, — what  a  difference! 

It  begins  to  rain,  "on  est  bien  chez  soi." 
In  a  comfortable  little  room  in  the  little 
brick  house  of  an  honest  ouvrier  "on  se 
couche." 


Tuesday,  28th  August. 

At  twelve  o'clock  we  leave  for  Mon- 
tigny  to  relieve  car  No.  3,  supplied  with 
our  "ordre  de  mouvement,"  some  cold 
meat,  a  bottle  of  Pinard,  blankets  and  a 
bloody  brancard  to  sleep  upon. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  as  one  travels 
along  these  roads  that  lead  to  the  front 
lines  how  elaborately  the  country  back 
of  them  has  been  prepared;  everywhere 
there  is  barbed  wire,  fields  that  once  grew 
sugar  beets  are  now  sown  with  rusty 
spikes  and  five  prong  wire.  They  reap 
their  harvest  still,  these  fields,  a  harvest 
of  dead.  The  roads  when  visible  from 
the  German  lines  are  screened  for  miles. 
Every  little  wood  has  its  concealed  bat- 
tery,   every   little    ridge   machine   guns, 

77 


78  **No. 


>  > 


trenches  and  dug-outs  everywhere  and 
more  barbed  wire.  The  nearer  the  lines, 
of  course  the  more  defences  there  are,  also 
tunnels  and  mines  that  could  blow  whole 
regiments  of  Boches  to  Hell. 

One  realises  more  and  more  why  we 
have  arrived  at  a  sort  of  checkmate  where 
both  sides  find  it  equally  difficult  to  ad- 
vance, and  more  and  more  am  I  con- 
vinced that  the  war  will  not  end  under 
the  present  conditions  of  fighting. 

At  the  "poste  de  secours"  outside  of 
Montigny  we  find  car  No.  3  waiting  for 
us  to  relieve  him.  No.  3  starts  back  with 
his  load,  making  the  "tournee  de  ramas- 
sage"  on  his  way  in  and  we  remain  on 
service  for  24  hours. 

Montigny  was  once  a  little  village  on 
a  hill  overlooking  a  peaceful  stream  and 
green  meadows  with  other  little  hills  and 


(  ( 


No.   6''  79 


villages  in  the  distance.  Montigny  had 
a  few  hundred  contented  inhabitants; 
Montigny  had  a  fine  little  church.  Now 
there  is  nothing  left;  no  church,  a  few 
demolished  houses  without  windows  or 
roofs;  that,  however,  makes  but  little  dif- 
ference, one  is  so  often  obliged  to  sleep  in 
the  cellars.  Where  are  those  who  once 
lived  here  in  peace?  Little  crosses  on 
the  hillside  account  for  the  men;  are  the 
women  any  better  off? 

At  present  the  37th  regiment  is  quar- 
tered here;  the  officers  and  men  spend 
sixteen  days  in  the  trenches  and  eight  days 
in  between  "en  repos."  Once  during 
every  "periode  de  repos"  the  gas-masks 
are  tested,  and  as  to-day  was  the  day  ap- 
pointed to  test  them  we  were  able  to  try 
ours  for  the  first  time.  Thirty  of  us  at 
a  time,  after  adjusting  our  masks,  were 


8o **No.   6*' 

closed  in  a  small  room  where  the  Major 
exploded  a  gas  cartridge.  We  remained 
for  five  minutes  and,  at  the  end  of  that 
time,  if  "^a  ne  pique  pas"  you  conclude 
that  your  mask  is  quite  all  right.  Noth- 
ing could  be  more  uncomfortable  to  wear 
than  a  gas-mask;  it  must  be  worn  very 
tight  in  order  that  no  gas  shall  enter; 
breathing  is  difficult  and  your  poor  head 
soon  aches.  A  new  device  that  I  also 
tried  is  a  great  improvement  but  unfor- 
tunately too  expensive  for  general  use. 
Air  is  inhaled  through  a  reservoir  carried 
on  the  back  which  makes  the  gases  harm- 
less, and  then  exhaled  through  a  valve 
that  makes  respiration  quite  natural. 
This  mask  is  good  for  one  hundred  hours 
instead  of  only  two  or  three.  As  the 
gases  are  developed  and  improved,  so 
also  must  the  masks  be.     There  is  a  new 


**No.   6^* 8i 

gas  called  "moutarde"  that  is  affected  by 
moisture  so  that  masks  will  not  suffice  and 
the  pores  of  the  skin  as  well  have  to  be 
protected.  They  are  also  experimenting 
with  cyanide  and  others  equally  deadly, 
so  that  soon  nothing  other  than  a  diver's 
outfit  or  a  hermetically  sealed  coffin  will 
save  you. 

There  are  no  orders,  nothing  to  do  but 
drink  beer  with  a  hospitable  officer  who 
invited  us  to  his  humble  mess  to  smoke 
and  chat  with  several  other  good  fellows. 
Over  the  glasses  with  tales  of  adventures 
and  women  we  forget  there  is  war,  and 
are  only  reminded  from  time  to  time  that 
the  Boches  are  but  a  mile  away  by  an 
occasional  gun  and  the  whistle  of  a  shell 
overhead  on  its  way  to  or  from  the  Ger- 
man lines. 

In  the  crepuscule  I  strolled  up  the  hill 


82  *'No.    6 


f  > 


along  the  road  that  leads  to  the  first  line 
trenches;  beautiful  poplars  line  the  road 
on  both  sides  standing  straighter  than  the 
sentries.  An  innocent  little  wood  where 
men  have  slit  each  other's  throats  and 
stuck  bayonets  into  each  other's  bellies 
now  belongs  to  us;  beyond  "no  man's 
land,"  and  beyond  that  what  we  are  fight- 
ing for. 

We  have  been  invited  to  dinner  so  I 
return  on  time.  There  is  a  saying  "the 
nearer  the  front  the  higher  the  life."  The 
fare  may  not  be  so  good  as  at  the  Cafe 
de  la  Paix  but  the  bread  is  whiter  in  this 
Cafe  de  la  Guerre.  A  bare  little  room 
with  a  stone  floor  in  a  half  blown  up 
house,  by  the  light  of  a  dim  and  smelly 
lamp  we  linger  over  our  coffee  and 
poilu  rum,  the  "world  forgetting,  by 
the    world    forgot."     Outside    the    rain 


'^No.    6^' 83 

beats  against  the  closed  shutters,  it  is  per- 
fectly still  and  black  except  for  the  star- 
shells  and  rockets  that  reassure  you;  they 
do  not  sleep,  those  who  watch  out  there. 
What  have  we  not  talked  about;  there  is 
nothing  left;  the  lamp  is  burning  low,  the 
bottle  is  empty,  so  we  go  to  bed  in  a  room 
with  crumpled  walls  and  only  a  dilapi- 
dated iron  bedstead  and  a  lousy,  blood- 
stained mattress,  by  the  light  of  a  solitary 
candle.  Poor  little  candle!  A  great  blan- 
ket is  hung  over  the  window  to  hide  the 
flickering  light  that  might  shine  through 
the  shell  torn  shutters.  Outside  it  rains 
in  a  dismal  way  on  a  dismal  world  and 
the  wind  moans  in  a  dismal  way  for  a  dis- 
mal reason. 

"Le  vent  qui  vient  a  travers  les  mon- 
tagnes." 


Wednesday,  2Qth  August. 

We  slept  in  our  boots  ready  for  a  call, 
but  none  came,  so  we  slept  until  the  sun- 
shine crawled  through  the  shrapnel  holes 
in  the  shutters.  After  a  washup  in  the 
cool  little  stream  that  comes  down  from 
the  Vosges,  we  had  our  coffee  and  started 
out  accompanied  by  our  good  friend  the 
Lieutenant,  to  inspect  the  trenches.  The 
same  road  of  yesterday  leads  toward  them 
and  we  can  drive  part  of  the  way,  as  far 
as  a  little  "poste  de  secours"  in  a  little 
clearing,  where  we  leave  the  ambulance. 

A  few  hundred  yards  further  on  the 
road  is  barred  by  barbed  wire  entangle- 
ments and  as  the  shell  holes  prove  it  is 
not  always  neglected  by  the  Boche,  we 

enter  the   communicating   trenches   that 

84 


zigzag  through  the  wood.  What  a  maze 
of  trenches  with  a  '^cachabis"  every  hun- 
dred yards  or  so!  queer  little  dug-outs 
where  men  live  like  moles. 

They  are  fairly  dry  in  spite  of  the  rain 
of  yesterday,  but  the  water  will  be  above 
the  corduroy  flooring  and  up  to  the  mid- 
dle before  long,  not  so  pleasant  for  the 
men  and  the  rats! 

There  have  been  no  attacks  latterly; 
the  enemy  has  been  too  busy  in  Flanders 
where,  thank  Heaven,  he  has  been  getting 
Hell.  As  we  get  nearer  we  become  more 
cautious,  one  must  not  look  over  the  para- 
pet, one  must  make  no  noise,  it  brings  the 
little  lead  bullets  that  sting  like  wasps. 
At  the  furthest  point  we  peered  over  the 
top ;  we  are  on  the  slope  of  a  hill,  beyond 
us  nothing  but  devastation.  This  is  "no 
man's  land"  where  nothing  but  barbed 


86  '*No.   6 


» t 


wire  grows  and  nothing  but  crows  live. 
At  night  patrols  venture  forth,  crawling 
on  their  stomachs  towards  each  other's 
trenches  to  feel  for  foot-prints  or  to  lis- 
ten. Sometimes  a  star-shell  reveals  them 
and  they  do  not  return;  sometimes  they 
meet  out  there  in  the  dark.  A  prayer  or 
an  oath,  a  groan  or  a  gurgle,  one  stays  and 
the  other  comes  back.  Quite  plainly  you 
can  see  the  rows  of  German  trenches  and 
it  is  strange  to  think  that  only  a  little  way 
off  they  are  watching  us  through  their 
periscopes  just  as  we  are  watching  them. 
On  the  left  is  the  village  of  Donevre :  with 
the  naked  eye  we  can  see  the  crooked 
streets  and  the  holes  in  the  roofs  of  the 
houses,  but  one  sees  no  Germans.  They 
live  in  the  cellars  and  like  bats  only  come 
forth  at  night.  In  the  first  line  running 
parallel  along  the  ridge  are  the  observa- 


(  ( 


No.   6''  87 


tion  posts,  little  armoured  turrets  where 
one  sits  in  rare  comfort  peering  through 
a  little  slit,  rows  of  rifles  and  mitrail- 
leuses ever  ready  to  spit  lead.  Very 
few  men  are  kept  in  these  front  trenches; 
they  remain  in  the  rear,  ready  to  come  up 
at  the  first  sign  of  an  attack.  Shelling 
the  trenches  is  consequently  not  suffi- 
ciently profitable,  an  occasional  hit  would 
not  warrant  the  waste  of  powder.  The 
uncertain  wind  in  this  hilly  terrain  makes 
the  use  of  gas  equally  dangerous  to  both, 
the  bleaching  bones  in  "no  man's  land" 
shows  the  result  of  attempting  to  take 
them  by  storm,  so  nothing  happens  and 
we  return  as  we  came,  zigzagging 
through  a  labyrinth  of  traverses  while  the 
guns  boom  and  the  shells  shriek  as  they 
fly  over  our  heads.  Latterly  there  have 
been  several  accidents  at  Montigny, — only 


88 **No.   6** 

last  week  two  blacks  were  killed  by  a 
^'marmite," — so  the  dressing  station  has 
been  moved  to  an  old  barn  down  the  road 
where  we  report  to  the  Major  and  while 
awaiting  orders  we  lunch,  sharing  our 
meal  with  some  poilus,  who  in  return 
give  us  soup  and  mashed  potatoes. 

They  are  always  so  friendly,  these  sim- 
ple soldiers  whom  you  learn  to  love,  with 
a  stripe  or  more  on  their  arm  that  means 
a  ride  or  more  in  one  of  our  ambulances 
at  some  time  or  other,  and  their  tales  are 
vastly  interesting,  but  they  are  tired  of 
it  all.  Five  sous  a  day  and  a  grave  in 
the  end  with  a  little  white  cross,  "Ici  re- 
pose"— one  of  a  million  whose  lot  it  was 
to  work  and  suffer  and  die. 

At  one  o'clock  another  car  comes  to  re- 
lieve us  and  with  a  couple  of  "assis"  we 
proceed  upon  our  tour  of  "ramassage." 


**No.   6''  89 

We  visit  in  turn  the  villages  of  Migne- 
ville,  Vaxainville,  Reherrey  and  Mer- 
ville;  there  is  but  little  left  of  these  vil- 
lages except  the  cellars,  the  most  useful 
part  of  these  frontier  houses,  however. 
In  each  village  there  is  an  '^nfirmerie" 
with  a  pile  of  straw  for  sick  beds  and  a 
''brancard"  for  an  operating  table.  The 
men  to  be  evacuated  are  taken  and  left 
at  one  of  the  several  large  hospitals  at 
Baccarat  where  they  are  fortunately  bet- 
ter ofT.  The  day's  work  is  over  to  begin 
again  to-morrow. 

My  room  seems  very  luxurious  to- 
night, the  little  cot  very  inviting.  Lying 
snugly  tucked  away  under  a  mountain  of 
blankets  one  thinks  of  those  out  there 
with  only  the  stars  above  and  the  mud 
beneath. 


Thursday,  JOth  August. 
After  "soupe,"  which  means  dinner, 
we  received  an  unexpected  visit  from  our 
chief,  accompanied  by  the  head  of  the 
Red  Cross  and  some  staff  officers.  They 
have  been  making  a  tour  of  the  sections 
bringing  official  word  that  what  we  had 
read  in  the  papers  was  true;  the  govern- 
ment has  decided  to  take  over  the  serv- 
ice; our  chief  and  his  associates  have  re- 
signed. For  me  this  means  the  end  very 
shortly  for  I  shall  do  as  they  have  seen 
fit  to  do.  To  the  silent  little  group  that 
gathered  about  him  in  the  growing  dark- 
ness he  said  a  few  words,  words  that  come 
straight  from  a  man's  heart  and  go  to 
others,  and  then  he  was  gone,  this  fellow 
we  all  love,  who  will  no  longer  be  our 

chief. 

90 


Friday,  Jlst  August. 

The  service  continues  very  light,  less 
than  half  the  cars  go  out  every  day  and 
the  idle  moments  are  many;  tant  mieux, 
it  means  less  wounded  and  France  has  had 
enough  already. 

This  afternoon  I  visited  the  great  glass 
manufactory.  Before  the  war  they  em- 
ployed 5,000  men,  now  there  are  about 
500,  old,  very  old  men  and  young,  very 
young  boys  engaged  chiefly  in  making  bot- 
tles, bottles  for  medicines  instead  of  the 
exquisite  bottles  for  ladies'  dressing- 
tables  or  gentlemen's  sideboards.  Quite 
the  most  extraordinary  sight  was  the 
champion  glass  blower,  pointed  out  to  us 
with  pride  and  envy  by  his  fellow  blow- 
ers.    A   cross,    surly   individual,    unlike 

the  others,  who  laugh  at  being  laughed 

91 


92 **No.   6** 

at.  He  is  old  and  insignificant  until  he 
gives  a  little  puff,  when  his  jowls  swell 
like  soap-bubbles;  then  he  becomes  a 
thing  of  curiosity  and  splendour,  and 
when  after  a  couple  of  preliminary- 
swings  he  holds  the  long  tube  in  his 
mouth  and  lets  himself  out  he  is  indeed 
a  thing  to  marvel  at.  The  skin  that  dan- 
gles loosely  from  his  cheeks  bellies  out 
like  a  child's  toy  balloon;  there  seems  to 
be  no  limit,  for  they  only  stop  swelling 
when  he  has  accomplished  his  purpose 
and  the  molten  glass  becomes  a  lamp 
chimney  or  a  giant  electric  light  bulb. 

It  is  strange  what  people  do  to  live  and 
what  importance  they  attach  to  living; 
would  he  were  near  when  next  I  puncture 
a  tire! 

After  dinner,  this  being  a  night  off,  I 
went  to  the  movies,  all  that  Baccarat  of- 


**No.   6*^ 93 

fers  in  the  way  of  entertainment.  In  the 
usual  hall  the  usual  audience  of  poilus 
and  the  usual  sickening  pictures  of  cheap 
sentimentality.  On  the  way  home  the 
"club,"  a  back  room  in  the  Hotel  Dupont 
where  there  is  a  piano  and  some  beer  and 
smoke  and  tales  of  the  day's  work,  work 
that  is  done  and  means  bed  and  rest. 


Saturday,  1st  September. 
No.  6  is  "en  alerte,"  which  means  that 
No.  6  must  be  ready  to  go  out  in  case  of  a 
call  for  any  special  service,  but  no  call 
comes,  so  after  a  day  spent  waiting  we 
turn  in,  half  dressed,  still  "en  alerte." 

NO  MAN'S  LAND 

There  is  a  land  that  no  man  dare 
To  call  his  own,  no  man  would  care, — 
This  hell-swept  waste  of  stench  and  mire 
Of  rusty  spikes  and  tangled  wire 
Where  corpses  rot,  faces  upturned, 
Torn,  split  and  emptied,  charred  and  burned. 
A  land  of  death  where  nothing  grows, 
Where  nothing  lives  but  worms  and  crows, 
Land  of  bleaching  bones  and  devastation 
Of  mournful  hope  and  utter  desolation — 
You  are  Death's,  and  his  hoary  hand 
Stretches  ever  o'er  No  Man's  Land. 

94 


Sunday,  2nd  September. 

At  5.40  a.  m.  an  urgent  call  came  for 
an  ambulance,  so  we  opened  her  up  and 
raced  off  to  Azerailles,  a  little  town  four 
kilometres  away,  where  we  collected  a 
badly  wounded  fellow;  fortunately  he 
was  unconscious  and  the  bumps  that  break 
your  heart  when  you  have  a  groaning  load 
of  them  meant  nothing  to  him.  We  got 
him  back  to  the  hospital  still  alive  but 
the  knowing  orderly  shook  his  head  and 
the  good  sister  murmured  a  prayer,  so  I 
fear  it  was  all  for  nothing. 

This  afternoon  the  Boches  came;  they 
come  quite  often  and  rarely  miss  a  Sun- 
day. It  is  not  easy  to  pot  them  but  we 
drove  them  off  with  no  damage  here  al- 
though they  raised  the  devil  with  a  little 

95 


96 **No.   6^^ 

town  over  which  they  passed  on  their  way 
back.  It  is  wonderful  how  they  fly,  these 
birdmen;  one  of  our  own  appeared  as  I 
was  standing  on  the  bridge  after  vespers. 
From  a  tremendous  height  he  swooped 
down  upon  us,  circling  the  church  steeple 
and  off  again,  but  our  cheers  and  the  ex- 
tra glass  of  Pinard  or  Poilu  that  he  must 
have  had  with  his  Sunday  dinner  brought 
him  back.  Flying  upside  down  seemed 
to  be  his  special  delight  with  a  nose  dive 
now  and  then  and  a  loop  the  loop  here 
and  there. 

There  is  a  little  cafe  opposite  the  cris- 
tallerie,  a  dingy  little  place  frequented 
by  soldiers.  Passing  by  on  the  way  home 
I  heard  the  strains  of  a  violin;  some  one 
was  playing,  playing  divinely.  In  a 
dimly  lighted  room  thick  with  smoke, 
dozens   of   poilus  were   crowded   about 


I  i  ^  ^        c  f  * 


o .    D  97 

the  bare  tables  with  half  empty  beer 
glasses  and  saucers  piled  high.  Silently 
they  sat  with  their  hairy  chins  buried  in 
their  hairy  paws  listening  to  a  poilu 
play.  His  music  had  put  them  in  a 
serious  mood,  but  just  as  music  has  the 
power  to  create  moods  within  us  so  it 
changes  them  at  will,  and  when  a  moment 
later  he  started  some  gay  French  song, 
his  body  swaying  from  side  to  side,  the 
glasses  began  to  clink  once  more  and  they 
roared  the  words  of  a  refrain  that  must 
be  censored. 

So  it  went,  one  moment  we  were  a  gay, 
laughing  crowd,  the  next  silent  and  sad 
with  far-away  thoughts.  Romano,  for 
that  is  his  name,  has  a  great  soul.  For 
years  he  played  at  Monte  Carlo;  now  he 
is  here  like  all  of  us  playing  for  higher 
stakes  with  the  ever  booming  guns  to  ac- 


98  **No.    6 


>  f 


company    the    fiddle    he    caresses    more 
fondly  than  a  mistress. 

Long  after  hours  we  remained,  but 
happy  hours  come  to  an  end  just  as  do  the 
unhappy  ones,  I  hope,  so  out  into  the 
night  still  singing  ''Madelon,"  and  home 
through  streets  dark  and  deserted  except 
for  the  sentinels  who  stand  guard  with 
one  eye  open  and  one  eye  closed. 

QUAND   MADELON. 

"Pour  le  repos,  le  plaisir  du  militaire 

II  est  la-bas  a  deux  pas  de  la  foret 

Une  maison  aux  murs  tout  couverts  de  lierre 

"Aux  Tour-lou-rou"  c'est  le  nom  du  cabaret. 

La  servente  est  jeune  et  gentille 

Legere  comme  un  papillon 

Comme  son  vin  son  oeil  petille; 

Nous  I'appelons  Madelon. 

Nous  en  revons  la  nuit  nous  en  pensons  le  jour — 

Ce   n'est   que    Madelon,    mais   pour   nous   c'est 

1>  )> 

amour. 


Refrain 

"Quand  Madelon  frole  son  jupon 

Et  chacun  lui  raconte  une  histoire 

Une  histoire  a  sa  fagon 

La  Madelon  pour  nous  n'est  pas  severe 

Quand  on  lui  prend  la  taille  ou  le  menton, 

Elle  rit,  c'est  tout  le  mal  qu'ell'  sait  faire- 

Madelon — Madelon — Madelon !" 


'Monday,  JrJ  September. 

No.  6  required  a  bit  of  attention  as  No. 
6  often  does,  otherwise  a  lazy  day  *'en  re- 
pos."  While  working  over  the  car  a  grey- 
haired  fellow  who  begged  a  bit  of  essence 
for  his  briquet  told  me  how  he  got  his 
"croix  de  guerre"  in  1914. 

"It  was  tough  in  Lorraine  when  we 
drove  them  from  Luneville  but  worse, 
nom  de  Dieu,  up  north.  Eight  of  us 
were  in  a  stable  shooting  through  the 
windows  when  a  marmite  came  through 
the  roof.  I  carried  the  sergeant  to  a 
poste  a  kilometre  away.  No,  he  wasn't 
so  heavy  with  only  one  leg,  and  he  fit  very 
snugly  in  the  hole  in  my  shoulder.  The 
others — you  could  have  picked  them  up 
in  a  bag.    C'est  tout." 


100 


'*No.   6"  loi 

To-night  our  good  friends,  the  French 
officers  from  Montigny,  messed  with  us 
and  we  spent  a  jolly  evening  at  the 
''Club." 

Work  when  you  have  to,  play  when  you  can, 
Shoot  them  and  stick  them,  care  not  a  damn, 
Hug  them  and  kiss  them,  there  is  no  ban, 
"C'est  la  guerre,  Aladame." 


Tuesday,  4th  September. 
There  is  very  little  activity  these  days; 
they  are  too  busy  up  north.  To-night  we 
gave  a  concert  to  some  of  the  French  offi- 
cers and  my  poilu  artist  played  for  us. 
Life  is  a  dreary  march  towards  a  tomb, 
"en  passant  il  faut  etre  gai,"  especially 
soldiers  who  often  march  quickly. 


102 


Wednesday,  September  ^th. 

Cars  Nos.  5  and  6  go  to  Badonviller 
for  twenty-four  hours.  At  12  we  leave, 
arriving  at  12.45.  "S'il  y  a  des  coups  de 
main"  we  shall  have  work,  but  this 
afternoon  all  is  quiet.  Now  and  again 
our  batteries  salute  the  Germans,  now 
and  again  the  Germans  return  the  com- 
pliment. 

There  is  but  little  left  of  Badonviller; 
it  was  completely  shot  up  the  first  weeks 
of  the  war  when  it  was  taken  and  retaken 
several  times  by  both  sides.  The  houses 
are  without  roofs,  the  walls  that  remain 
standing  rent  by  great  shell  holes  and 
pierced  by  shrapnel.  The  streets  are  still 
littered  with  the  hastily  constructed  bar- 
ricades of  timber  and  barbed  wire  that 

103 


I04 **No.   6^^ 

were  thrown  up  during  the  first  attacks 
when  they  fought  all  over  the  place,  and 
here  are  also  the  permanent  ones  built 
later  by  the  Germans  of  cement  and 
Krupp's  steel.  Those  must  have  been  hot 
times  when  the  French  held  one  streetand 
the  Germans  another,  when  the  "mitrail- 
leuse" in  the  darkness  killed  their  own. 
After  days  of  desperate  fighting  the  Ger- 
mans succeeded  in  taking  the  cemetery, 
over  the  graves  and  in  and  out  of  the 
tombs  they  fought.  The  dead  must  have 
had  a  day  of  it  with  fellows  overhead 
sticking  bayonets  into  each  other  and 
bashing  in  skulls.  For  several  days  the 
French  were  able  to  keep  the  church, 
with  their  machine  guns  mounted  upon 
the  altars  vomiting  lead  through  holes 
knocked  in  the  walls,  but  the  Germans 
had    heavy     artillery    and    when    they 


**No.   6"  los 

brought  it  up  and  got  the  range  there 
was  no  more  church,  no  more  Frenchmen. 
A  few  little  flowers  have  sprung  up  out 
of  their  blood;  their  bones  are  buried 
amongst  the  stones  and  mortar  but  their 
spirit  remains  and  their  souls  are  immor- 
tal. 

Countless  wooden  crosses  within  the 
tumbled  down  walls  of  the  cemetery 
mark  the  graves  of  many  other  heroic 
Frenchmen.  Your  noble  sacrifice  was 
not  in  vain;  the  lives  you  gave  to  check 
the  first  onslaught  of  the  Huns  saved 
France  and  France  saved  the  world.  The 
few  civilians  who  returned  when  it  was 
all  over  and  when  the  Germans  were  fi- 
nally driven  out  live  in  cellars  and  go 
about  their  business  with  gas-masks  ever 
ready,  for  Badonviller  is  scarcely  a  kilo- 
metre from  the  first  lines. 


io6 **No.   6** 

The  old  woman  in  whose  house  we  are 
quartered  owes  her  life  to  her  "metier 
de  sage  femme,"  and  the  fact  that  when 
the  Germans  occupied  the  town  her  serv- 
ices were  required  by  a  German  woman. 
We  have  come  to  help  her  country  so 
she  cannot  do  enough  for  us,  the  good 
soul.  She  cooks  the  food  we  bring  and 
lets  us  sleep  in  her  dining-room. 

After  calling  upon  the  "Major  du  can- 
tonment" for  orders  and  finding  none,  I 
visited  the  trenches.  Back  of  the  ceme- 
tery on  the  hill  they  bv^gin  and  for  a  mile 
one  winds  in  and  out  of  the  "boyaux" 
that  lead  to  the  first  lines.  Overhead  the 
shells  whistle  in  an  everlasting  game  of 
battledore  and  shuttlecock  "et  on  s'en 
f ."  The  trenches  are  splendidly  con- 
structed with  directions  everywhere,  a 
corduroy  flooring  that  keeps  them  fairly 


**No.   6'* 


107 


dry  and  every  few  hundred  metres  en- 
trances to  elaborate  dug-outs  where  deep 
down  vast  quantities  of  supplies,  muni- 
tions and  men  are  stored.  The  advanced 
machine  gun  positions  are  arranged  so 
that  each  gun  will  sweep  a  certain  ter- 
rain, leaving  not  a  square  foot  uncovered. 
They  are  in  communication  by  telephone 
with  the  listening-posts  still  closer  up  and 
the  batteries  that  would  protect  them  by 
barrage  fire  in  case  of  massed  attack.  At 
night  they  have  a  system  of  signals:  one 
green  light  means  to  fire,  two  green  lights 
fire  continuously,  red  light  to  ask  for  ar- 
tillery support,  white  light  all  well.  The 
most  advanced  post  is  known  as  a  listen- 
ing-post and  was  located  in  a  little  thicket 
only  occupied  in  the  daytime.  Here 
thirty  yards  from  the  Boche  were  a  hand- 
ful of  soldiers  with  a  rifle  in  one  hand  and 


io8 **No.   6*^ 

a  hand  grenade  in  the  other,  ever  on  the 
alert.  One  peers  through  a  little  peri- 
scope and  fancies  that  an  equally  vigilant 
German  eye  is  peering  back;  it  is  a  queer 
sensation  and  you  are  ready  to  duck  if  you 
see  a  grenade  coming  your  way. 

They  tell  you  strange  tales,  these  chaps, 
and  you  do  not  wonder  when  they  ask  in 
a  whisper  when  it  will  finish. 

The  days  are  getting  short,  soon  it  will 
be  winter;  it  is  almost  dark  and  time  to 
return,  back  as  we  came,  to  our  soup. 

Our  versatile  midwife  is  a  rare 
"cuisto."  Somehow  or  other  she  man- 
aged to  get  a  few  eggs  for  an  omelet,  and 
with  fried  potatoes,  some  "singe"  and  a 
bottle  of  "Pinard"  one  cannot  grumble. 
Madame  likes  her  "verre,"  too,  so  she  sat 
down  with  us  and  told  us  many  tales  of 
German  atrocities;  how  the  Mayor's  wife 


**No.   6^' 109 

had  been  shot  for  looking  out  of  a  win- 
dow, how  a  little  boy  who  had  been  sent 
by  a  brute  of  an  officer  to  fetch  some 
water  was  shot  upon  his  return  and  while 
still  alive  thrown  into  the  fire.  In  the 
Mairie  there  is  a  roll  of  honour  with  the 
names  of  all  those  w^ho  were  murdered 
and  how  they  met  their  fate.  It  is  use- 
less to  recite  this  litany  of  crimes,  mur- 
der, rape,  arson,  nothing  did  they  omit. 
The  room  above  was  used  as  an  operat- 
ing room  and  ward.  A  French  boy  of 
ten,  who  day  and  night  had  been  made  to 
work  for  them,  was  badly  wounded  by  a 
shell  fragment.  While  lying  upon  one  of 
the  cots  he  was  observed  by  an  officer,  who 
calmly  threw  him  through  the  window 
to  squash  what  was  left  of  his  poor  man- 
gled little  body  in  the  street  below. 


no **No.   6** 

God  damn  the  Germans !  "God  damn" 
is  a  prayer. 

There  are  no  lights  when  night  comes. 
The  village  is  a  village  of  dead.  We 
climbed  the  hill  that  leads  past  the  ceme- 
tery and  out  beyond  where  no  man  lives 
and  all  is  still,  still  because  every  now 
and  again  a  white  rocket  flares  up,  but  a 
red  or  green  one  would  change  it  all. 

The  guns  are  asleep,  to-night  it  is  per- 
fectly dark  and  quiet  until  a  star-shell 
goes  up,  as  they  do  every  few  moments, 
lighting  up  "no  man's  land"  where  none 
must  venture.  As  far  as  one  can  see  they 
are  bursting,  these  beautiful  star-shells, 
making  day  of  the  night  from  here  to  the 
North  Sea. 

On  our  return  we  found  the  Major 
who  came  to  share  a  bottle  of  beer,  and 
we  heard  further  tales  of  German  atroci- 


**No.   6'* i£i 

ties  and  the  Kultur  of  Von  Bernhardi. 
May  the  day  of  reckoning  soon  come! 
This  is  our  prayer  as  we  roll  ourselves  up 
in  our  blankets  upon  the  brancards  that 
less  fortunate  ones  have  found  less  com- 
fortable. 


Thursday,  6th  September. 

We  are  relieved  at  the  expiration  of 
our  24  hours  and  return  to  Baccarat  pass- 
ing through  Peronne  and  Vacqueville  for 
any  sick  or  wounded  on  the  way. 

To-day  there  is  bad  news  from  the  out-, 
side  world;  the  Germans  have  taken  Riga 
and  the  situation  is  very  gloomy. 

Russia  and  the  Russians!  they  have 
failed  us  and  it  is  for  them  that  France  is 
at  war! 


112 


Friday,  Jth  September. 

"Apres  le  travail  le  plaisir,  apres  la 
pluie  le  beau  temps."  The  sun  was 
warm  this  afternoon  and  we  had  a  glori- 
ous bathe  in  the  Meuthe  where  I  left  a 
few  "cooties,"  and  then  a  peaceful  siesta 
on  the  shady  banks  where  I  collected  a 
few  insects. 

It  must  be  quite  easy  to  kill  when  the 
day  is  grim  and  stormy;  to-day  it  would 
be  hard,  but  guns  of  steel  have  no  hearts 
and  men's  hearts  have  become  of  steel; 
so  the  guns  are  never  still,  but  they  are 
far  away  and  the  occasional  boom  has  a 
pleasant  sound,  a  mellow  soothing  rum- 
ble that  lulls  one  to  sleep, — to  sleep  and 
dream  of  the  years  that  are  gone  and  of 

those  that  may  never  come. 

113 


114 **No.    6** 

If  it  ever  ends  how  I  shall  live!  The 
hours  I  have  squandered,  the  pleasures  I 
have  ignored,  no  longer  will  they  escape 
me;  my  cup  will  be  full  and  I  shall  drink 
to  the  dregs.  I  shall  taste  for  the  first 
time  the  happiness  of  things  and  hours 
that  meant  nothing  before.  For  the  first 
time  I  shall  know  the  "joie  de  vivre." 
"To  breathe  in  the  sunshine  of  a  happy 
day,  to  drink  in  the  moonlight  of  a  happy 
night."  Wild  fancies,  these,  when  to- 
morrow a  shapeless  carcass  may  be  all 
that  is  left  to  rot  by  the  wayside. 

Awake  with  a  start;  the  sun  is  setting 
in  the  west,  and  the  guns  are  grumbling 
in  the  east. 


Saturday,  8th  September. 

To-day  we  go  to  Herberviller;  it  is  not 
our  most  advanced  post,  but  it  is  the  most 
disagreeable,  as  here  the  Germans  have 
left  nothing.  The  population  has  gone 
forever,  there  is  not  even  a  dog  or  a  stray 
cat.  Ruins  everywhere,  among  which 
live  a  few  soldiers  and  ourselves.  Our 
garage  is  what  is  left  of  a  house  next  to 
the  '^nfirmerie,"  where  there  is  a  tele- 
phone that  summons  us  wherever  we  may 
be  needed. 

As  there  seems  to  be  no  need  of  us  at 

present  I  walked  over  to  St.  Martin  along 

a  well  shelled  road.     The  Germans  are 

on  their  good  behaviour  to-day,  not  that 

the  swine  know  how  to  behave  but  they 

have  been  saving  their  ammunition  lat- 

115 


ii6  **No.   6 


> » 


terly.  St.  Martin  is  like  most  of  the 
towns  in  this  region;  a  demolished  church 
surrounded  by  demolished  houses,  occu- 
pied only  by  soldiers  "en  repos"  but  al- 
ways working.  In  the  village  repairing 
"abris,"  in  the  fields  digging  trenches,  in 
the  graveyards  digging  fresh  graves  for 
comrades  who  might  just  as  well  be  dig- 
ging theirs.  It  may  be  luck,  it  may  be 
destmy,  or  maybe  but  the  caprice  of  a 
shrapnel  shell. 

The  surgeon  in  charge  of  the  "in- 
firmerie"  was  on  his  way  out  to  visit  the 
Captain  in  one  of  the  advanced  posts;  a 
short  walk  over  the  hills  brought  us  to 
the  entrance  of  the  "boyaux"  through 
which  we  made  our  way,  finally  emerging 
in  a  little  wood  about  a  kilometre  from 
the  German  lines.  Here  we  found  the 
Captain  peacefully  smoking  in  the  door 


**No.   6** 117 

of  his  luxurious  dug-out.  It  was  the 
hour  to  make  the  rounds  so  we  set  out 
through  more  complicated  trenches  and 
traverses  that  led  us,  unperceived  by  the 
enemy,  through  fields  of  barbed  wire  and 
shell  holes  to  No.  i  "poste  de  resistance," 
located  in  a  clump  of  trees  with  a  stretch 
of  "no  man's  land"  separating  us  from  the 
Boches  whose  positions  were  a  few  hun- 
dred yards  away. 

These  P.  R.,  or  posts  of  resistance,  take 
the  place  of  trenches;  they  are  thrust  out 
as  far  as  possible  and  command  the  ter- 
rain between  themselves  and  similar  ones 
on  their  right  and  left.  This  particular 
one  is  occupied  by  about  50  men,  mostly 
"Annamites"  who,  because  of  their  alert- 
ness, make  excellent  sentinels  under  the 
command  of  French  sous  officiers.  If 
attacked  they  resist  as  best  they  can  until 


ii8  *'No.    6 


>  > 


relieved  or  killed.  "En  attendant"  they 
live  in  their  dug-outs  ever  on  the  watch, 
on  the  watch  for  the  German  patrols  that 
come  at  night  to  cut  their  wire  and  get 
behind  them.  Only  last  week  a  captain 
and  his  orderly  were  set  upon  and  killed 
by  some  Germans  who  in  the  night  had 
managed  to  get  through  and  were  hiding 
in  the  thicket.  So  every  morning  the 
wood  is  beaten  and  when  a  twig  snaps  or 
a  tree  stirs  in  the  lazy  afternoon  breeze 
a  dozen  rifles  are  pointed  m  that  direc- 
tion. 

For  days  they  have  been  trying  to  catch 
a  dog  who  comes  over  from  the  German 
lines,  a  mysterious  fellow  on  his  way  no 
one  knows  where,  but  they  think  he  once 
lived  in  the  "pays,"  and  is  being  used  by 
some  Boche  to  carry  messages  back  and 
forth.     Several  times  he  has  been  seen, 


usually  about  dusk,  but  each  time  he  got 
away,  as  orders  had  been  given  not  to 
shoot  him,  so  as  to  find  out  where  he  went. 
Poor  brute,  keep  away,  the  orders  have 
been  changed  and  you  are  to  be  shot  the 
next  time  you  appear,  like  any  other 
Boche. 

After  a  careful  inspection,  orders  were 
given  for  a  patrol  to  go  out  that  night. 
The  sergeant  takes  his  orders,  salutes,  and 
walks  away  as  if  he  had  been  ordered  to 
clean  a  pair  of  boots. 

C'est  la  guerre! 

By  a  series  of  underground  traverses 
we  reached  Post  No.  2  where  everything 
was  equally  quiet  although  the  night  be- 
fore they  were  obliged  to  drive  off  some 
Germans. 

Brave  fellows,  these,  who  sit  around 
calmly   smoking   until   they   are   killed; 


I20  **No.   6 


>  > 


some  day  an  attack  comes  and  they  need 
no  orders  to  remain.  A  cloud  of  gas  or 
a  rain  of  shells  will  keep  them  but  they 
will  die  hard  in  their  little  dug-outs  cov- 
ered by  sandbags  and  closed  in  by  barbed 
wire,  die  as  they  lived, — for  France.  This 
is  the  spirit  that  saved  us,  this  is  what  all 
the  diabolical  German  inventions  cannot 
overcome.  And  just  as  this  undaunted 
spirit  born  of  a  just  cause  makes  men  fight 
all  the  harder  in  bad  moments,  so  the  lack 
of  it  will  make  the  Boche  give  up  quicker 
when  his  bad  moments  come,  as  they 
surely  will. 

Back  as  we  came  with  enemy  avions 
amongst  the  little  white  puffs  of  shrapnel 
in  a  cloudless  sky  and  the  shells  that 
whistle  everlastingly  back  and  forth. 

Dinner  over  a  little  fire  in  the  cool  of 
the  evening,  and  sleep  rolled  up  in  a  dirty 


**No.  6'*  121 

r 

blanket  on  a  filthy  stretcher,  sleep  and 
dreams  of  a  world  left  behind. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  a  call  came 
from  St.  Martin,  where  we  arrived  to  find 
our  friend  the  sergeant  shot  through  the 
foot  and  a  little  yellow  Chinaman  with  a 
bad  leg.  The  patrol  that  went  out  to 
reconnoitre  was  discovered,  a  heavenly 
star-shell  and  a  hellish  mitrailleuse  did 
the  trick. 

So  we  return  our  friend's  hospitality 
with  a  long  ride  to  Ogerviller  and  Bac- 
carat, trying  hard  to  avoid  the  bumps  on 
a  very  black  night. 


Sunday,  Septemb-er  the  Qth. 

After  a  night  of  it  one  is  glad  to  be  re- 
lieved and  return  to  Baccarat  for  a  bath 
and  a  rest.  In  the  evening  we  gather  at 
the  Hotel  Dupont  which  has  become  our 
club,  to  drink  beer  and  swap  stories, 
stories  of  shells  that  nearly  blew  a  wheel 
ofi  and  shells  that  really  blew  a  leg  off. 

I  heard  of  a  fellow  whose  hands  were 
blown  off  by  a  hand  grenade.  They  did 
what  they  could  to  make  him  comfort- 
able. Between  bumps  and  moans  he 
said  very  simply,  "Ca  va  bien,  I  gave  my 
life  to  France;  she  has  only  taken  my 
hands." 

Bedtime  comes  and  then  to-morrow 
when  it  begins  again,  this  endless  round 
of  "Postes  de  secours"  giving  up  their 
endless  quota  of  wounded. 


122 


Monday,  September  lOth. 

More  bad  news  from  Russia;  I  fear  we 
can  no  longer  count  upon  them. 

One  grows  very  fond  of  the  Poilus; 
great  indeed  are  their  qualities  and  great 
the  debt  we  owe  them.  The  general  does 
not  share  the  soldier's  hardships  and  mis- 
ery, the  soldier  does  not  share  the  gen- 
eral's glory  and  recognition. 

I  called  at  the  hospital  to  see  my  friend 
the  sergeant;  his  foot  is  doing  famously 
and  he  will  be  back  in  a  fortnight  with 
another  stripe  on  his  arm  and  another 
foot  to  be  shot. 

"Bonne  chance  mon  vieux" — "Merci  Monsieur"-^ 
And  be  up  with  his  kit  and  away 
With  a  stripe  on  his  arm  for  the  blood  he'd  shed 
And  a  patched  up  side  where  he'd  bloody  well  bled 

For  France. 
123 


124 **No.   6** 

He's  done  his  bit  but  there's  more  to  do 
It  will  not  be  through  for  the  "brave  poilu" 
'Til  his  life  is  spent  or  the  battle  won, 
'Til  he's  smashed  the  Boche  and  finished  the  Hun 

For  France. 

This  is  the  spirit  of  legions  in  blue 

The  every  thought  of  every  poilu 

Who  gives  life  gladly  that  France  may  live 

— So  long  live  France! 

Sometimes  you  see  them  with  four  and 
five  stripes;  it  means  that  four  or  five 
times  they  have  been  wounded,  shot  full 
of  lead  from  a  machine  gun,  hit  by  a 
hand  grenade  that  rips  you  open  or  a 
piece  of  shell  that  tears  a  jagged  hole  in 
a  belly  to  empty  its  entrails,  to  fall  in  a 
Hell-swept  shell  crater  wondering  if  the 
end  has  come,  praying  that  it  has. 

To  bleed  and  curse  and  thirst  for  hours, 
sometimes  days;  the  agony  of  being 
moved  with  a  mangled  leg  or  a  shattered 


**No.   6** 125 

arm,  to  be  carried  on  a  back  or  a  stretcher 
to  a  dressing  station,  to  be  dumped  on  a 
pile  of  straw  to  wait  your  turn;  the  tor- 
ture of  being  patched  up,  then  a  hellish 
ride  in  an  ambulance  that  jolts  your  heart 
out.  Bloody,  muddy,  sticking  bandages 
to  be  torn  off  and  at  last  sleep,  the  brief 
merciful  sleep  of  chloroform  while  they 
cut  and  burn  and  sew.  Nights  of  fever 
and  thirst,  days  of  dressings  and  anguish, 
finally  well.  A  few  days  of  rest  and 
back — back  for  another  stripe. 


Tuesday,  Ilth  September. 

Montigny.  The  officers  of  the  37th 
have  left  and  Montigny  is  more  desolate 
than  ever.  The  Boches  shelled  our  ga- 
rage so  we  have  been  obliged  to  change. 
Our  present  one  is  between  two  walls, 
which  seem  like  the  tower  of  Pisa,  alwavs 
about  to  fall,  the  floor  black  mud.  the 
roof  blue  sky. 

All  the  afternoon  we  were  busv  but 
after  '4a  soupe"  there  was  nothing  to  do, 
so  I  strolled  up  the  hill  and  sat  in  the 
graveyard  watching  the  rockets  "out 
there." 

After  the  grim  daylight,  night, 
Night  and  the  stars  and  the  sea, 
Only  the  stars  and  the  sea 
-Ajid  the  star-shorn  sails  and  spars, 
Naught  else  in  the  world  for  me. 
126 


"No.    6"  12 


/ 


In  the  presence  of  anything  vast,  a  moun- 
tain or  the  expanse  of  the  sea,  we  realise 
our  own  insignificance,  how  futile  life  is. 

"On  entre,  on  crie,  c'est  la  vie; 
On  crie,  on  sort,  c'est  la  mort." 

What  difiference  does  it  all  make?  If 
one  believes  in  a  hereafter  what  does  it 
matter  if  one  arrives  a  little  sooner  or 
later,  this  fleeting  existence  is  not  even  a 
drop  in  the  bucket  of  eternit}';  if  one  be- 
lieves in  nothing  hereafter,  then  again 
what  difference  does  it  make?  So  3'ou 
whose  bones  lie  bleaching  out  there  con- 
sole yourselves. 

In  the  stillness  in  the  distance  you  can 
hear  horses'  hoofs  and  the  creaking  of 
hea\^  wagons;  the  Germans  bringing  up 
their  supplies.  Slowly  the  moon  comes 
out  from  behind  a  cloud. 


128 **No.    6'^ 

"La  nuit  vient,  tout  se  tut,  les  flambeaux  s'eteigni- 

rent 
Dans  les  bois  assombris,  les  sources  se  plaignirent 
Le  rossignol  cache  dans  son  nid  tenebreux 
Chanta  comme  un  poete  et  comme  un  amoureux. 
Chacun  se  dispersa  sous  les  profonds  feuillages 
Les  folks  en  riant  entrainerent  les  sages 
L'amante  s'en  alia  dans  I'ombre  avec  I'amant 
Et,  trouble  comme  on  Test  en  songe,  vaguement, 
lis  sentaient  par  degres  se  meler  a  leur  ame 
A  leurs  discours  secrets,  a  leur  regard  de  flamme, 
A  leurs  coeurs,  a  leurs  sens,  a  leur  molle  raison 
Le  clair  de  lune  bleu  qui  baignait  I'horizon." 

Sometimes  it  is  good  to  be  alive;  not 
always,  but  the  moon  goes  back  behind 
his  great  black  cloud,  and  "le  clair  de 
lune  bleu  qui  baignait  I'horizon"  ends, — 
ends  like  life,  like  love,  like  everything. 

"J'ai  le  cafard,"  a  vague  longing  to  be 
somewhere,  a  vague  yearning  for  some- 
thing; maybe  sleep  that  brings  forgetful- 
ness  will  drive  you  away.     Good-night, 


squelettes  beneath  your  heavy  tombstones. 
They  must  have  put  them  there  for  me 
to  stumble  over.  Surely  they  were  not 
needed  to  keep  you  in  your  peaceful 
graves,  surely  the  dead  would  not  want  to 
come  back — to  be  killed. 

We  planned  a  night  of  comfort  and 
luxuriousness;  we  put  up  our  cots  beside 
an  ambulance  and  turned  in,  but  one  by 
one  the  stars  disappear,  just  as  one  by  one 
they  appeared,  and  it  begins  to  rain;  so 
we  pack  them  into  a  shed  across  the  road 
amongst  the  horses  and  the  manure. 
War  makes  strange  bed-fellows. 

Oh!  for  a  fire  I  know — 
The  storm  and  the  night  outside, 
The  embers  that  smoulder  and  glow 
And  a  friend  by  the  fireside ! 


Wednesday,  I2th  September. 
Baccarat  again  and  more  bad  news 
from  the  outside  world,  further  disturb- 
ances in  Russia!  Has  Russia  not  been 
sufficiently  disturbed?  More  revolu- 
tions! Has  Russia  not  been  sufficiently 
revolutionised  with  the  abolition  of  vodka 
and  the  abdication  of  the  Czar?  The  ma- 
jority of  Russians  are  too  barbaric  and 
backward  to  be  modernised,  the  minority 
too  modern  and  advanced  to  fit  into  the 
present  scheme  of  life.  If  at  the  outset 
the  Allies  had  taken  hold  of  their  coun- 
try and  resources,  built  them  a  few  thou- 
sand versts  of  railroad,  equipped  and 
officered  their  vast  armies  as  Germany 
did  for  Turkey,  the  war  might  now  be 

over.     Now    if    Germany    succeeds    in 

130 


**No.   6^^ 131 

overcoming  and  utilising  Russia  as  she 
did  Belgium,  will  the  war  ever  end? 

Sometimes  I  fancy  the  world  reverting 
to  feudal  times,  one  half  fighting  the 
other  half;  intrenched  within  their  for- 
tresses, living  on  forever  within  them- 
selves, just  as  the  old  barons  in  mediaeval 
times  fortified  themselves  against  their 
neighbours,  making  of  their  domain  their 
world. 


Thursday,  TJth  September. 

One  car  is  now  permanently  stationed 
at  Badonviller  and  one  at  Ogerviller 
where  they  remain  one  week  in  service, 
consequently  two  cars  less  go  out  each  day 
and  this  brings  us  an  additional  day  off 
duty. 

More  casualties  in  our  ranks,  more 
brandy  and  castor  oil. 

Sometimes  in  the  midst  of  it  all  you  get 
a  strange  emotion.  I  passed  to-day,  com- 
ing in  from  the  front,  a  great  motor  lorry 
piled  high  with  knapsacks,  helmets, 
boots,  and  dirty  torn  tunics  with  dark  red 
stains. 

"Man  wants  but  little  here  below 
Nor  wants  that  little  long." 
It  takes  not  long,  it  takes  but  little 
To  forget  him  when  he's  gone. 
132 


September  14th,  Friday. 

Terrible  news!  not  of  the  war  or  any- 
thing so  trivial.  The  Hotel  Dupont  has 
been  placed  "en  consigne"  for  ten  days 
for  serving  officers  between  the  hours. 
The  Marquise  is  terribly  upset  and  so 
are  we;  surely  we  cannot  be  without  our 
club!  Oflf  I  go  to  see  the  General  Staff 
and  things  are  arranged. 

When  I  came  for  my  coffee  after  din- 
ner the  Marquise  and  Helene  gave  me  a 
hug  and  presented  me  to  two  charm- 
ing Parisiennes.  "C'est  drole,  la  vie." 
Their  brother,  a  brave  little  chasseur,  was 
killed  two  years  ago,  so  on  the  anniversary 
they  come  to  say  a  prayer  and  put  a  few 

poor  little  flowers  on  his  grave.     Done 

133 


134 **No.   6** 

this  afternoon,   to-morrow   they  go,   to- 
night we  dance. 

It's    a    strange    life    where    nothing 
counts,  not  even  death. 


September  1 5th,  Saturday. 

"She  loved  me  for  the  dangers  I  had 
passed,  and  I  loved  her  that  she  did  pity 
them."  How  often  have  we  sneered  at 
these  lines  in  "Othello,"  not  so  to-day 
when  I  had  a  narrow  escape.  This  care- 
less life  makes  one  very  callous;  who  will 
ever  go  to  Africa  again  to  shoot  a  lion  or 
to  the  Rockies  for  a  bear?  Precious  lit- 
tle excitement  it  would  afiford  after  this 
hunt  for  bigger  game! 

The  French  have  always  been  an  excit- 
able people.  I  wonder  at  the  lack  of 
emotion  in  the  soldier  no  matter  what  is 
going  on. 

"It's  quite  simple,"  as  one  of  them  ex- 
plained, "si  on  se  f pas  mal  de  sa 

peau  on  deviendrait  fou." 

135 


136  **No.   6 


>  > 


A  lad  in  his  twenties  with  long,  wavy 
hair  and  long,  slender  fingers,  who,  were 
it  not  for  the  war,  might  be  playing  the 
violin  at  the  Cabaret  Rouge  in  the  Latin 
Quarter  or  dreaming  and  writing  verse 
in  a  garret  in  Montmartre.  It  is  strange 
how  they  take  to  the  grim  business  of  war, 
these  mere  boys;  over  night  they  become 
men,  hardened  to  it  all,  a  night  of  such 
horrors  as  I  have  heard  described;  they 
learn  to  kill  with  the  best  of  them  who, 
the  day  before,  would  have  shuddered  at 
the  thought. 

A  look  of  amusement  came  over  his 
boyish  face  as  he  told  me  how  he  had 
"zigouille"  a  Boche: 

"It  went  in  like  butter  but  I  stuck  it  in 
too  hard  and  it  would  not  come  out.  I 
had  to  put  my  foot  on  him  and  pull.  Oof ! 
it  was  terrible  to  feel  him  wriggle." 


<  <  M«         C  »  » 


No.   6^^ 137 

Gone  the  look  of  amusement  and  a  look 
of  horror  comes  over  a  man's  face. 

This  afternoon  I  visited  the  hospital  to 
see  a  friend.  What  a  hellish  and  heav- 
enly place,  a  hospital  ward,  with  its  at- 
mosphere of  carbolic  and  suffering,  rows 
of  cots  and  glass  tables,  perambulators 
with  bottles  of  disinfectants  and  reme- 
dies. Angels  in  white  that  quietly  come 
and  go  and  smile  and  care;  sick  and 
wounded  getting  better  or  dying,  clean 
and  comfortable,  as  comfortable  as  they 
can  be  made,  for  beneath  the  white  sheets 
legs  and  arms  are  gone — or  worse.  How 
much  suffering  and  resignation  there  is 
expressed  on  these  pale  countenances  that 
smile  so  bravely  to  conceal  it  all. 

My  friend  is  no  longer  here.  I 
brought  him  in  two  days  ago,  shot 
through  the  chest,  thanking  me  for  going 


138 **No.    6*' 

slowly,  begging  me  for  water,  dripping 
blood  all  the  way.  That  is  why  my 
friend  is  no  longer  here.  "Mort  pour  la 
France," — it  has  already  been  painted  on 
a  million  white  crosses  upon  which  the 
sun  is  setting.  How  many  more  upon 
which  the  sun  will  rise?  As  it  goes 
down  over  the  hills  to  rise  somewhere  else 
it  leaves  me  with  the  "cafard" — "le  caf- 
ard"  for  that  somewhere. 

LE  CAFARD 

Like  a  ghost  to  haunt  you 
It  comes  in  the  night 
To  mock  and  taunt  you 
In  the  moonlight. 
When  shadows  are  strange 
And  all  the  world  is  still 
It  comes  to  disturb  you 
And  to  possess  your  will. 


**No.   6''  139 

Into  your  thoughts  creeping 

Things  unheard,  unseen, 

Fancies  saturating, 

Blotting  out  the  senses ; 

Fining  your  empty  heart 

With  a  vague  wanting, 

Your  empty  soul 

With  a  veiled  longing, 

Your  empty  arms  with  a  mad  yearning 

Till  your  soul  is  craving 
For  something  near  and  far — 
It  comes  in  the  night 
In  the  moonlight — 
Le  Cafard. 


Saturday,  15th  September. 

We  took  some  Boche  prisoners  at 
Montigny,  or  rather  they  came  over  dur- 
ing the  night  as  they  sometimes  do.  They 
tell  the  usual  tale  of  hunger  and  hard- 
ship to  excite  pity,  but  they  do  not  look  it. 
Starvation  exists  in  Germany  but  only  the 
useless  starve.  With  their  brutal  effi- 
ciency the  Germans  feed  their  armies; 
the  old,  the  decrepit,  the  unnecessary 
starve. 

The  lines  occupied  by  the  8th  Army  ex- 
tend as  far  as  the  Rendez-vous  des  Chas- 
seurs, where  I  went  this  morning  with 
some  officers. 

"Ah!  le  beau  jardin,"  exclaimed  Louis 

XIV  when  he  saw  these  beautiful  Vosges 

mountains  in  Alsace,  and  a  beautiful  gar- 

140 


**No.   6*' 141 

den  it  is,  indeed.  Wonderful  hills  cov- 
ered with  pines,  cool  streams  that  mur- 
mur and  trickle  slowly  down  into  the  val- 
ley below  where  the  meadows  are  red 
with  poppies — and  blood.  Way  up 
amongst  the  hills  close  to  the  sky  is  the 
Rendez-vous  des  Chasseurs,  too  heavenly 
a  spot  for  hellish  doings,  but  the  pictur- 
esque dugouts  that  look  like  chalets  in 
Switzerland  are  covered  with  sand-bags, 
for  the  shells  do  not  always  whistle  harm- 
lessly by.  The  commandant's  house  is  a 
miniature  castle  built  of  granite  with  tur- 
rets and  a  moat  and  a  proud  device  over 
the  little  gateway,  "lis  ne  passeront  pas," 
sublime  words  that  recall  Verdun,  "They 
shall  not  pass,"  nor  did  they.  History 
will  record  glorious  names,  glorious 
deeds,  la  Marne,  la  Somme,  I'Aisne,  but 
none  more  glorious  than  Verdun  where 


142 **No.   6*' 

German  Kultur  shattered  itself  against 
French  valour. 

Half  a  mile  away  are  the  Boches  who 
will  never  be  nearer  paradise, — let  us 
hope  they  will  soon  be  farther. 

On  the  way  in  we  stopped  at  the  Vil- 
lage Negre,  so  called  because  it  was  built 
by  the  black  troops  who  occupied  it  in 
1914.  For  months  the  Germans  never 
ceased  shelling  them,  so  they  dug  them- 
selves in  little  by  little  and  to-day  there  is 
an  underground  village  on  the  side  of  the 
hill,  with  quarters  for  thousands,  hospi- 
tals, storehouses,  everything  underground. 
One  sees  nothing  but  little  entrances  that 
lead  to  the  elaborate  dwellings.  Here 
and  there  smoke  curls  lazily  out  of  the 
ground  where  far  below  they  cook  and 
eat  and  live  like  ants. 

I  dined  to-night  with  some  French  of- 


**No.   6'^ 143 

ficers;  one  of  them  is  known  as  "Le 
Mort."  He  was  in  command  of  a  bat- 
tery that  was  hit  fairly.  When  the  smoke 
blew  away  there  was  no  battery.  Days 
after  when  they  came  to  clean  up  the 
debris  they  found  him  half  buried  and 
half  dead.  But  "Le  Mort"  is  still  very 
much  alive  and  has  another  battery  if 
the  Germans  need  proof. 

Together  we  stroll  home  through  the 
night,  "Le  Mort" — Death — and  myself, 
through  streets  deserted  but  for  the  ever 
vigilant  sentries  wrapped  in  their  great 
coats  tramping  wearily  up  and  down  or 
huddled  up  in  their  little  coffin-like 
boxes. 

In  the  cafes  there  is  light  and  warmth 
and  wine — and  more  soldiers  clinking 
glasses  singing  Madelon — "pour  le  re- 
pos  du  militaire" — out  thef'e  where  the 


144 **No.   6*^ 

rain  falls  softly  and  the  mud  is  everlast- 
ing, more  soldiers  watching  and  waiting 
for  death — "le  seul  repos  du  militaire," 
but  amongst  all  these  weary  soldiers  not 
one  who  will  not  go  on  living,  or  if  needs 
be,  die  for  France. 

For  three  long  years  and  a  half  they 
have  borne  the  brunt  of  it;  their  courage 
has  been  sublime — there  have  been  bad 
moments,  but  in  the  midst  of  them  they 
have  never  faltered. 

The  savage  finds  a  delight  in  fighting 
— even  the  English  find  an  enjoyment  in 
a  life  of  excitement  and  adventure.  The 
German  does  it  in  his  stolid  way,  as  a 
child  goes  to  bed,  because  he  is  told  to. 
The  Russian  revels  in  things  reckless  and 
mad,  but  the  French  love  life  too  well — 
they  love  their  food,  their  wine,  their 
women.     To  gladly  give  all  is  the  hero- 


'*No.   6^* 145 

ism  of  France,  in  whose  heart  there  is  sor- 
row but  upon  whose  soul  is  graven  the 
stern  Roman  motto,  ''Vae  Victis" — so  the 
Huns  shall  be  brought  to  account  and 
made  drink  to  the  dregs  from  the  cup  of 
skulls  they  fashioned,  the  tears  they 
caused  to  flow. 

Two  letters  have  come,  one  from  the 
chief  informing  me  that  my  liberation 
had  been  asked  for.  I  have  been  offered 
a  commission  and  am  to  proceed  to 
Paris  immediately. 

The  other  from  General  ,  asking 

me  if  my  views  had  not  changed.  No! 
my  convictions  are  stronger  than  ever,  all 
this  will  not  bring  a  military  decision. 

Germany  must  be  beaten  by  other 
means,  but  Germany  will  be  beaten  for 
France  will  never  stop  until  the  peace 
they  long  for  is  theirs — the  peace  they 


146  **No.   6 


>  f 


owe  their  dead,  real  peace,  that  only  a 
real  victory  will  bring. 

France  has  given  much,  has  much  to 
give;  France  will  give  her  all.  Her  sac- 
rifice will  not  have  been  in  vain  if  war 
in  the  future  be  but  a  thing  of  the  past. 


Sunday,  1 6th  September. 

How  cold  it  is  when  the  day  breaks; 
often  have  I  lain  awake  in  the  night  in 
this  little  room  haunted  by  "le  caffard" 
for  far-away  places. 

I  leave  for  Paris  at  eight.  How  often 
shall  I  lay  awake  in  far-away  places 
haunted  by  "le  cafard"  for  this  little 
room — for  the  good  friends  of  Section  59 
—and  "No.  6." 


147 


POILU  TERMS 


J 


boyaux communicating  trenches 

brancard    stretcher 

cachabis  dug-out 

cafard yearning 

camion motor  lorry 

cuisto  cook 

embusque slacker 

en  panne broken  down 

en  planton in  reserve 


/       • 


genie    engmeers 

marmite  big  shell 

(and  so)  marmite shelled 

Pinard wine 

149 


iqo  **No.   6*> 

popotte "^^^^ 

"Rosalie"   the  bayonet 

zigouiller to  bayonet 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


y?>iX  ^|v 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA      000  294  387    6 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


.if 


